


Facing Future

by knitbelove (ladymac111)



Series: The happy ending is when things are going to begin for me. [7]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Present Tense, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6028993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/knitbelove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only months before Simon finishes university, and Baz is working hard to prepare for the next stage in his own education. Adulthood is looming -- it's here already, really -- and that's going to take some adjustment. And it's not going to be easy, but at least they know they'll have each other. Whatever happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1, scene i

**Author's Note:**

> Content advisories: mental illness (anxiety and depression) dealt with bluntly and in detail, seriously flawed coping mechanisms, Baz cries kind of a lot. Martin Bunce and Malcolm Grimm show us what they’re made of. Amor vincit omnia. Sexual content in later chapters.
> 
> (title from the album of the same name by the inimitable Israel Kamakawiwo'ole)
> 
> Huge, MASSIVE thanks to my wonderful beta [ElizaJane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) for her assistance! You have made such a huge difference to this fic, I don't know how to thank you.
> 
> If you like context, this work is in the same 'verse as my other Carry On stories, which are collected in this series.

_-Simon-_

Rebecca and I are the only ones in the comp sci lounge on this particular Wednesday afternoon, having tea while we wait for our code to finish compiling before we go home for the day. It's starting to look like evening outside -- which reminds me that it's not as early as I expect it to be, since I got used to working here over the winter. We're just past the equinox (I still mark the passage of the year by the equinoxes and solstices, like mages do), which means when it starts looking like evening it's actually time for me to wrap up and head home. (If I'm not there to make Baz dinner and I haven't left instructions, he eats cheese sandwiches, or pot noodle, or jam on toast, and then whinges later when he's not satisfied from a child's meal. I keep a supply of shelf-stable curry packets on top of the fridge, why does he never just zap one of those and make a little rice?)

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know it's Baz before I even pull it out -- he made himself a custom vibration sequence on my phone when I got the new one, and I'm too tickled to change it. The text is a series of exclamation points followed by a photo of a piece of paper. I have to zoom in to read it, and it's kind of blurry, but as soon as I make out the letterhead and the first line of the text my heart leaps into my throat. "Oh my _god_."

Rebecca looks startled. "Is that a good OMG or a bad OMG?"

"Baz just texted me."

"Yeah, Simon, I know, I can tell. What did he text you?"

I'm still too shocked to really speak, so I hand her the phone, and her eyebrows jump up her forehead. "He got into the Master of Laws programme at University College London?"

"He got into UCL! That was his first choice!"

She smiles fondly at me and hands the phone back. "Are we really surprised?"

I laugh a little, looking at the photo again, then I tap to try to compose a response. "No, I suppose not." I type _holy shit_ and hit send; that's about what he expects of me, and honestly the best I can do at the moment.

She's leaning back in her chair, holding her tea cup in a thoughtful way. "Didn't he get his bachelor's degree from the London School of Economics? They've got a good graduate law programme, don't they?"

I nod. "They do, but he's had enough of them. Wants to go somewhere else."

"One whole mile up the road?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "At least that means we won't have to move."

"I'd move anyway, your flat is a tip."

"Hey, it's not that bad." My phone buzzes again: Baz says _I know right?!?!_ I smile and text him the kiss emoji.

"You'll be able to afford a great place once you're working," she points out. "Somewhere with actual kitchen counter space so you can bake without putting things on chairs."

I chuckle -- she's been there sometimes while I'm making scones. "Yeah, that would be a change, wouldn't it? But I need a job first."

"Haven't you got offers?  Interview invitations? I thought you did.  Professor Ginsburg has been really pushing you, I know, she even tells me about it."

"I do, I just...." I shrug. "It's still awfully surreal.  I haven’t answered any of them yet, haven’t set anything up."

Becca has had one job interview already.  It seems weird, to do it so long before we graduate, but I guess that’s a thing.  We have the same academic advisor, Dr Ginsburg, and she’s really keen on both of us to find exciting and fulfilling careers after we get our degrees, since we’ve already disappointed her by deciding against graduate school.  She says we’re some of the most promising undergraduates she’s seen in years (which I could see for Becca, who’s clearly brilliant, not me) but I’m not sure whether she means from our entire department, or just of those she advises.

"What does Baz think?"

"He's full of opinions, as always." He doesn't even know about all the interest I've had -- and I’m sure a lot of it is Ginsburg’s doing. I've been filling out applications since January and every single one has name-dropped her in their reply to me and asked for an interview, which means I've essentially got a dozen jobs to pick from already and exactly zero inclination to actually move on any of them. (Baz also doesn't know that the very first job I applied to was one at a company that has a Watford alumnus among its executive staff, and that he's sent me four emails himself begging me to come in and meet the team. That is _not_ something I'm ready to face, turns out.)

"What's the holdup, then?"

"I don't know, Becca," I sigh.  "I suppose it just all seems so grown-up, and I'm not ready for that yet."

She gives me a look that reminds me so strongly of Penny that I feel a sharp stab of wistfulness. "Simon, you're twenty-two years old, you rent a flat with your boyfriend, and you have a part-time job as an Apple genius. You _are_ a grown-up."

"I quit that job in January because I needed more time for school."

"You know what I mean."

Sometimes it's really hard not to tell Becca everything, to share with her exactly how fucked-up my life was until a few years ago. She knows I grew up a ward of the state and went to a fancy prep school somehow, and that I had a brush with some serious shit during my last year that led me to finishing my schooling on my own before I started at university. She knows I have a therapist who I still have sessions with every couple of months, but by now she's given up trying to get me to tell her what happened. She knows it was traumatic and that I don't want to talk about it.

She doesn't know I used to be The Greatest Mage. She doesn't know Baz is a vampire and always carries his ivory wand in a little wooden case in the bottom of his messenger bag. She's never seen his blood in our fridge because he always spells it before anyone comes over.

But she's a good friend, and good at being quiet when I don't feel like talking, and now is one of those times. She's pulled out the sock she's knitting and is kind of gazing at it in a defocused way while she works on it -- she looks like she hasn't got much sleep recently, with the amount of time she's been putting into her thesis project, so she's kind of taking a mental break right now. Our projects aren't due for months yet, but we're putting in the hours now, before the other class work gets heavy.

The scary thing about being grown-up is that some part of me never thought it would happen. All of my expectations completely changed four years ago, and I have been thinking about the future, but in a nebulous way, like, this is a thing I'll prepare for, but without it ever pinging that it's actually coming. Part of it is that I spent a good amount of therapy time trying to get over a fixation on endgame and destiny, so I was trying to convince myself not to get emotionally invested in an expected outcome. Planning, yes. Thinking, also yes. Expecting ... no.

But here I am, a few months away from my BSc, with two dozen starred emails from potential employers gathering digital dust in my inbox, and the days seem to go by faster and faster until I'm barrelling down on my twenty-third birthday and I have to be doing _something_ then because Baz is about to disappear into his Master's programme even more than he's already disappeared into that damned GDL, and we've got to eat and pay the rent.

Thank fuck he's on good terms with his family so at least we won't take on any debt for all his schooling. Plus, his father has been paying his rent since Watford, and he refuses to let Baz live on what we earn (what _I used to_ earn; Baz quit his part-time job at Costa in September before he started the law conversion course), so even though we want to pay our own way in the world, we don't, and we live a little nicer than our peers. (Shit, fuck, once I graduate I'll have four years' worth of student loans to start paying back.)

Becca knows Baz's family is absurdly wealthy, and I'm sure she's guessed that they're bankrolling our lives to some extent. But she also understands that neither of us wants to be dependent on them. Which I know doesn't exactly jive with what I just said about not wanting to be a grown-up, but I'm allowed to be complicated.

Baz texts me back. _Fiona's in London right now. Wants to take us out drinking tonight to celebrate._

_I'm not sure my liver can take it._

_Lol._ His response is quick, and it's a few seconds before I get more. _I told her it's midweek and she'll have to wait until Friday because we are actually still in school._

 _I'm good with that._ I send that, then follow up a moment later: _Did you tell your dad yet?_

He takes a minute. _No not yet I'm going to call him later probably._

I wish I could read tone through text message, but it's just a grey bubble on white, and he hardly ever uses emoji. I can't tell if he's excited or proud or nervous about telling his dad, but he's such an over-achiever it's probably all three.

_When will you be home?_

I consider a moment. _Idk when do you want me home_

_Well I'm here now and I'm bouncing off the bloody walls so soon would be nice_

I chuckle and Becca gives me a smile. _I got code happening but I'll leave here as soon as I can. I love you I'm so proud of you I can't wait to see you_

He texts me six pink hearts and _I love you too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on legal education in the UK:
> 
> GDL = Graduate Diploma in Law, also referred to as CPE = Common Professional Examination. This is a one-year graduate course that is taken by people (like Baz) who have Bachelor degrees in fields other than law who want to become barristers or solicitors (it covers the same material as a three-year undergraduate LL.B). There are a number of options after you've completed the degree depending on what you want to do; Baz wants to be a solicitor and chooses to continue with graduate study for another year to get a Master of Laws (LLM), then he will have to do another six- to twelve-month postgraduate Legal Practice Course (LPC) before he begins a two-year apprenticeship with a firm.


	2. Act 1, scene ii

_-Baz-_

It's quite late by the time we finally get home from celebrating with Fiona and the three other Watford alumni we're friends with.  Dev is one of those friends, remarkably, and although our relationship is _very_ different than it was at school, it seems to be stronger.  The other two we see regularly are Dev's girlfriend Amber who was in our year at Watford, and her best friend and roommate Grace, who also happens to be my fifth cousin on the Grimm side.  (Even having this many friends is proving difficult with all the various pressures of adult life, not to mention all our Normal friends at school; I've reluctantly admitted that Bunce is right about friendships.)

Simon and I are both pretty tipsy, but not full-on drunk. I'm the last to finish in the bathroom, and when I slide into bed Simon rolls over to wrap me up like a hungry octopus, then brushes his nose on the underside of my chin and kisses my neck.

"Congratulations again," he murmurs, and I run my hand through his hair.

"Thanks, love."

"You're going to be phenomenal, aren't you?"

"Are you implying I'm not already?"

"Twat." He nips at my jaw, and I stifle a giggle.

"I couldn't have done this without you," I say. He pulls away just enough so he can lean up on one elbow and look down at me, and he looks more serious than I would expect. "What?"

"Just ... thinking."

"That's not like you." I'm joking; the corner of his mouth turns up a little, but he doesn't rise to the bait like I expect. "Simon?"

He blinks. "No, I mean ... I've _been_ thinking. And I am now. Well, of course." He stops, purses his lips for a moment before he continues. "Now that you're going to UCL for sure, and I'm graduating soon, we can start ... planning. Thinking about the future."

My heart skips a beat. "What's to plan?"

He runs his hand across my chest. "I think ... I think I want to get married."

I'm honestly, completely, and stupidly shocked -- I’m not even completely certain I heard him right.

And it must show on my face, because rather than looking contemplative, like a moment ago, he looks a little worried.

"Baz...?"

I'm still at a loss for words, so instead I grab him by the back of the neck and kiss him as hard as I can. He responds instantly, enveloping me with his arms. When we finally come up for air I've figured out what to say.

"Yes," I whisper, and I know I'm crying and I don't care at all. "Yes, _absolutely_ yes, a _thousand times_ yes."

He comes back in for another kiss. "Christ, you scared me."

"I'm sorry. I was surprised."

"You absolute berk." He's grinning at me now, and he reaches up and wipes the wetness off my cheeks with his thumb. "Good recovery, though."

I nearly blush. "I try."

He kisses me for another few blissful minutes, and when eventually the pauses grow longer than the kisses he sighs happily and leans back onto his pillow. "Holy shit, did we just get engaged?"

"Technically you didn't ask me," I point out.

"You answered anyway."

"I read between the lines."

"You're going to be a right bastard in the courtroom, aren't you, Basilton Pitch?"

"That's Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, Esquire," I say, summoning every drop of Old Family blood in me, which is quite a lot. "They shall come to fear my very name."

He turns onto his side and slides his hand into mine. "Can I take your name?"

"No, I'm keeping it."

His face scrunches up with laughter. "You know what I mean."

"You've got a perfectly good name."

"I've got a perfectly _ridiculous_ name."

"My father would have an aneurysm if you became a Grimm-Pitch. Mother would come back to life to murder you. Not to mention the rest of both families would probably have you assassinated ten different ways."

"Mordelia would love it."

I groan; she's eleven now, and has the _worst_ crush on him. "Ugh, god, anything but that."

He's still grinning at me. "Think about it, though."

"The answer's no, Snow. Everyone is keeping the same name they have now."

"If I hyphenate, my surname initials would be GPS."

"Simon."

"I'd have even more names than you!"

" _Simon_."

He laughs. "All right, all right, don't have kittens."

"And anyway, I'm not going to be a barrister."

He blinks. "What?"

Oh, right, we've moved on from that. "I'm not going to be in courtrooms. I'm going to be a solicitor, not a barrister."

He stares at me. "That conversation is _so_ five minutes ago."

"Just because _you_ can't keep the thread."

He kisses me lightly. "If non-sequitur, then goto end."

I return his kiss more enthusiastically and roll halfway on top of him. We're not going to make love tonight, I know; I haven't enough blood in me, and he's got too much alcohol in his, and we're both going to crash soon. But it feels good to be touching him. It feels like the kind of love I want to keep forever.

We kiss a little while longer until we've both wound down, and I lean my ear against his heartbeat and I can hear when his breathing deepens and I know he’s asleep, and then I’m alone with my thoughts.

I’m honestly struggling to believe that this actually just happened.  It’s not like I’ve never thought about marrying him, of course -- I have, I _absolutely_ have, and rather a lot, especially recently.  But I wasn’t sure that he’d thought about it.  He’s never been much of one for planning, hardly ever thinks farther ahead than his grocery list for the next three days.

Though … that’s not completely true; I’m not being fair to him.  It _used_ to be true, when we were kids.  But we’re not any more, and he’s become responsible without either of us really realising it.  Suddenly I wonder if he’s somehow become The Responsible One in our relationship, the practical one.  What does that make me?

I’m getting lost in my head, starting to wander down dark corridors.  I force myself to think of something else.

 _Marrying Simon_.

The thought first occurred to me when I was fifteen.  It made me miserable.  (Everything about Simon made me miserable that year.)  It felt like a fever dream.

It first occurred to me as an actual possibility a year ago, when we decided to move in together.  That was when things with Simon started feeling … not _serious_ , because it’s always been serious.  I’ve been serious about him since the beginning.  But … it felt _permanent_.  And the longer we’ve lived here, together, the more I’ve begun to feel like we will always be Us.  Like I don’t want to have to figure out a future for myself that doesn’t have him in it.  Like I want to be able to expect that he’ll always be by my side.

I wonder when he first thought about marriage.  Well, marriage to _me_.  I know when he was with Wellbelove everyone sort of assumed that would happen, because it does seem to, with magicians -- pair off at Watford or find yourself lonely at forty.

Back then, neither of us expected _this_.  But here it is anyway, and he wants to _marry me_ , and I realise I’m not so much surprised that he does, but that he actually asked.  Out of the blue, no less.  I did kind of figure we’d get married eventually, but I also thought I’d be the one asking.  (I want to be the one to get down on one knee with a ring in hand.)

I roll over onto my back, and Simon shifts in his sleep.  I’m wide awake, and my brain feels like it’s made of knots.  I’m exhausted, and the alcohol is making me feel heavy, and I can’t stop bloody _thinking_ and I’m going around in circles and it’s like falling into a mental pit.  It occurs to me that I don’t feel happy right now, which is so utterly _wrong_ , because I just got engaged to the man I’ve loved for a decade and I am actually completely over the moon about that.

I groan and get out of bed.  Simon sighs and moves his head a little but doesn’t wake.

I need a distraction, need to turn my brain off.  It’s stupid to do my reading for school at two o’clock on Saturday morning, but needs must.

I’ve got a thick photocopied packet of an annotated case in my bag, so I fetch that from the sitting room quickly and bring it back to bed.  There’s enough faint light coming from outside that I can see the page without too much difficulty, and I read until my head is filled with the law instead of my own life, and I set it aside when it’s too hard to keep my eyes open.


	3. Act 1, scene iii

_ -Simon- _

I wake up first, which is normal and not a surprise, even though I was kind of hoping for some Saturday morning just-woke-up kisses and cuddles. Baz still sleeps like he's dead, if the dead could gradually develop a raspy snore. I think that has something to do with how I broke his nose when we were 13 and it never healed right ... and it's certainly got worse between when we were roommates at Watford and when we moved in together last summer. It's not so bad just at the moment, only a soft whistle on his inhale, since he's on his belly with his face half-buried in the pillow.

I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him. My head is a little muzzy from the drink last night, but it's not bad, not really a hangover, just in need of a strong cuppa. After I splash some water on my face I feel a little better, and I take a moment in the bedroom door, watching him sleep, trying to get used to the idea that  _ I asked him to marry me and he said yes. _

The feeling isn't happening; it still feels like a wild dream. (And him snoring is deeply unromantic, which doesn't help.) I head to the kitchen to put the kettle on instead. That, at least, I know how to handle.

While the water is coming to a boil I get out my laptop and sit in the patch of sun that illuminates our table at this time of the morning. I wish a little bit that I'd actually  _ planned  _ on proposing to him, so I could have given him a ring or something. I don't know if he'd wear one -- probably not, come to think of it -- but I'd have liked to give him some kind of token. To let him know I'm really serious.

I'm almost a little surprised by how serious I am, if I'm honest with myself. I didn't think I was going to to ask him last night, it just kind of slipped out. Not that I haven't been thinking about it, because I definitely have been. Ever since Dr Ginsburg first started pushing me to start looking at plans for after graduation I've also been considering my personal life, what was going to happen to me and Baz once I'm not in school any more.  What I  _ wanted _ to happen with us.

Splitting up was clearly  _ never _ an option -- I'm stupidly happy with him, happier than I thought a romantic relationship could ever make me. (Not that I had much of a  frame of reference, previously, but still.) I couldn't bear to ever leave him, not after what it took for us to get together. After we somehow turned years of aggression into a different, better kind of passion.

And the opposite of splitting up is staying together, and I desperately want him to know that I never,  _ ever  _ want to leave him. I'm going to be a thorn in his side until the day we die.

I'm not sure when exactly my long-standing belief that I'll annoy him forever morphed into my desire to make things official between us; I have a suspicion that it started years ago. But the conscious thought was seeded last spring when I mentioned to Becca that Baz and I were looking for a flat, and she made an offhand joke about living in sin. I laughed it off, at the time, but I've been thinking about it ever since.

And somehow, in the past few months, it became obvious to me that the one thing I'm certain I want in my future is him. I'm certain I want to marry him, and maybe I hadn't planned to say so just yet, but I'm glad I did -- it's put an end to the wondering.  It’s a relief.  With that in the clear, I can go back to just being crazy in love with him, which is where I want to be.

I wonder if there’s anything I could get to give him, just as a little something, a memento; I google  _ engagement gifts for men _ and scroll through the results. Cuff links seem to be a popular choice, and that definitely fits with his whole thing, but they're wildly expensive.  Plus my taste is definitely not up to par with his and I'd hate to choose something he didn't like, or that wasn't professional enough. That's the problem with being in comp sci, it’s developed my natural tendency to live my life in jeans and zip-up hoodies with the occasional bow tie on a slightly-wrinkled Oxford shirt. Wool suits and silk ties are still mostly foreign concepts to me, even though they live in the wardrobe next to my things.

I keep scrolling and my attention is caught by ... custom engraved collar stays? I'm not completely sure what those are, but after a minute of research I'm starting to feel intrigued by the idea. Apparently they’re little metal bits that go in shirt collars to keep them pointy?  I'm not certain whether Baz's shirt collars even  _ have _ removable stays (he gets them cleaned so I never come across them when it’s my turn to do laundry) but it wouldn't be hard to find out, I suppose. And I really like the idea of these, you can get them made with all kinds of stuff written on them, like a secret message from me when he's wearing them all day.  And since they go inside the shirt there's no concern for fashion.

I'm a little surprised by how many results I find for these once I start looking, since I've never heard of them before. Some of them come in sets of eight, which seems a little absurd, because you can only ever use two at a time, right? I don't think I could come up with more than two things to say anyway, "I love you" and "Simon <3 Baz" pretty much run me dry. I guess if we had a wedding date I could use that but  _ holy shit  _ I am not ready at all to think about that yet.

I bet Penny could help me come up with a bunch of stuff that he'd love ... but that would mean telling her, and we haven't exactly discussed whether we're telling anyone yet. I kind of feel like I ought to tell Penny anyway, she is my best friend, and she'll be furious if she finds out I waited more than thirty seconds to tell her I proposed to Baz and he accepted.

Split loyalties are a drag. It almost never comes up, but when it does, choosing between those two is impossible. Probably the thing to do is wait until Baz gets up and then tell him I'm telling Penny before I text her.

The kettle has boiled and stopped by now, so I get up and make my tea, then throw together a quick breakfast of toast with jam and a couple hard-boiled eggs from the fridge.

I'm still eating and surfing the internet when I hear him stir, then get slowly out of bed. I quickly bookmark the collar stays I found and then close the tab, and open XKCD like I'd been reading it the whole time.  I watch Baz take the few steps into the bathroom, but he’s not looking at me yet, his eyes are still pretty much shut against the sunlight.

I give him a bright smile and a warm  _ good morning _ when he comes into the kitchen a couple minutes later, wrapped tightly in his dressing gown and looking a bit the worse for wear: his hair is tangled, his eyes look dark and a bit sunken, and he's hunched in on himself the way he does when he feels cold all the way down. But when he sees me his expression shifts from consciousness-is-terrible to maybe-there's-something-worth-waking-up-for, and I meet him in the middle of the room with a tender kiss. We stay there for a minute, wrapped up in each other, breathing together, before he finally speaks, and his voice is deep and a little rough. "How long have you been up?"

"Not long. Half an hour."

"Kettle hot?"

"Yeah." I give him another peck. "Sit down and I'll fix you a cup."

He shuffles to the table and sinks down while I get out a mug and bring the water back to boiling. Once all the ingredients are combined and it's on its way to becoming drinkable, I take it to him, and he's gazing at me with a look of wonder.

"What?"

"Last night wasn't a dream, was it?"

I grin and take my seat across from him. "No, it wasn't."

A smile blooms on his face. "So you really do want to get married."

"Yeah, of course I do." I really do, I  _ really _ do.

He starts to giggle. "To be honest, Snow, that's a little terrifying."

"Yeah, I know." I lean forward, propping my chin on one hand, and find his fingers with my other. "But I'm not afraid if I'm with you. That it's you makes it ... not terrifying."

This seems to leave him speechless and choked-up; he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment.

"I haven't told Penny yet," I say, and he lets out another little laugh and looks up at me playfully.

"What, really? Why not?"

"Wanted to check with you first."

"Send her a damn text, you knob, she'll murder us both if you wait another minute."

"Are we telling everyone?"

He pauses. "Maybe not, not yet. Just Penny for now."

I check the world clock on my phone. "It's four in the morning in Chicago."

"Great thing for her to wake up to, then."

I open up my messages.  _ So last night I might have accidentally proposed to Baz, and he said yes, and we're engaged now. You can tell Micah but it’s kind of secret so don't go spreading it around. Don't ask about the wedding date either we haven't thought that far yet. _

My heart is pounding when I send it, and I look up to see Baz watching me with wide eyes. "Done it?"

"Yeah." I read it to him.

"No backing out now," he says, sounding a little nervous.

"Getting cold feet already?" I tease.

In response he slides his toes under the edge of my pyjama bottoms and I flinch away at the shock. "Bloody hell, Baz, I didn't mean literally!"

He leans back and laughs, a deep, happy laugh, and the sun is shining on his face, and I think in wonderment,  _ this is the man I'm going to make my husband _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Custom engraved collar stays](https://www.etsy.com/market/engraved_collar_stay)


	4. Act 2, scene i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 1 end note for a brief explanation of legal education in the UK and some terminology that Baz uses here.

_ -Baz- _

Deciding when to tell everyone about our engagement has turned into an enormous pain in the arse, to the point that I almost wish we had just done it right away. Fuck the fact that it would have overshadowed my admission to the Master of Laws programme at UCL. It’s not a secret that he proposed the same week as that, and honestly, what does it matter?

Luckily we have Penelope Bunce in our corner (god, how many times in my life have I been glad for that?), and she is nothing if not thoroughly logical and devoted to exploring every possibility before making a decision. Snow didn't much care when or how we announced it, even though it was his university graduation we’ve been trying to work around, so she and I did most of the talking about it and he just casually approved the final plan. (I'm dreading planning the wedding itself -- will he be equally hands-off? Will Bunce be the one helping me and my family plan it?) (Come to think of it, maybe we should just preemptively make her Maid of Honour to both of us.)

In the end we chose the beginning of May to break the news publicly. It's a whole month before Snow’s final exams, so he's stressed out but coping well, and can devote a little time to all of the hurricane of attention we're going to get from literally everyone we know. I, of course, am still swamped with my GDL course.  (By now I’m regretting my decision as an undergrad to study whatever I fancied and figure out the rest later -- I should have got serious and done a law degree to begin with instead of government and linguistics.  Though, if I’m completely honest, at the time I declared I wasn’t thinking of going into law.  But it’s much easier to just blame past-Baz for not having the foresight.)  But I've been so swamped with school for so long that it's starting to feel normal, and I've still got a bit before the extra end-of-term push myself so I won't be totally overwhelmed. Probably. So while the timing isn't ideal, we're pretty sure ideal timing doesn't actually exist for us, and this will do.

It's also just become difficult to keep our engagement secret. We're so excited and happy we  _ need _ to be able to talk about it. Six weeks was long enough.  I’ve wondered a few times why we waited at all, but once we’d waited that first day we kind of got stuck -- and today’s the first step in getting un-stuck.

It's eight-thirty in the morning on Saturday. I've had my pint of blood, which normally helps me feel level-headed, but I slept poorly last night and I'm on edge. Snow's had breakfast once, and then again because he was nervous. He's been pacing the kitchen in his boxers and undershirt for fifteen minutes, running his hands through his hair until it's an absolute disaster. I desperately want a cup of ridiculously sweet coffee, not to mention some kind of absurd calorie-bomb pastry, but I have to get this over with first.

I look up at Simon. He's finally sat down across from me, arms folded, elbows on the table, leaning forward and giving me a hesitant smile. "Ready?"

My phone is sitting on the table between us. I take a deep breath, unlock it, and call my father.

He answers after two rings, just like he always does. "Hello, Basilton."

"Hello, Father, how are you?"

"I'm fine, though I'm a little surprised to be hearing from you this early in the morning."

"Early? It's half eight, I know you've been up for hours."

He chuckles. "It's Saturday. You never call me before noon on Saturdays. Why do you sound far away?"

"We’re on speakerphone.  Simon's here too."

"Ah, of course. Hello, Simon."

"Hi, Mr Grimm."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of speaking to both of you so early in the weekend?"

"We, um...." I have to stop, to swallow down the bundle of nerves that's tightening my throat. "We've got some news."

There's a weighty pause. "I'm all ears."

Simon is biting his lips and gives me a little nod. I close my eyes. "We're engaged. Simon and I are going to get married."

We both hold our breath through a moment of silence.

"Well!" my father says, sounding decidedly more pleased than I expected. "That's excellent news! Congratulations to you both."

I let out my breath, feeling shaky and relieved. "Thank you. Thank you, Father."

"You need to be the one to tell your mother," he says, and it sounds like he's stood up and started walking. "When did you two decide?"

"It's, um." This is the part that's a little awkward, admitting that we waited. "It's been about six weeks. He asked me right after I got accepted to the LLM programme at UCL."

My father laughs a little. "Kept it to yourselves for a bit, did you?"

Simon catches my eye, and he's smiling. "Yeah," I say. "Just ... you know."

"Yes, I know." There’s a rustle as he takes the phone down, and his voice is slightly muffled. "Daphne? Basilton's on the phone, wants to say hello."

She says something inaudible, there's a shuffle, and then she comes on, sounding cheerful. "Hello, darling! What a nice surprise."

"Hello, Mother. Actually I'm here with Simon too, we've got something to tell you."

"Oh? What is it?"

I'm not nervous this time. "Simon's asked me to marry him; we're engaged."

She gasps. "Oh, Basilton! That's wonderful! Oh, goodness, I'm so happy for you both."

"Thank you so much, Mother."

"Thank you, Mrs Grimm," Simon adds.

"Have you chosen a date yet?" she asks, sounding excited.

Simon and I look at each other. We expected this question, and we've discussed it, to some extent, but.... "Um, not exactly."

"Have you had any ideas, though?"

"Well, not immediately, certainly."

"Are you going to wait until you've finished school?" my father asks, still muffled -- it sounds like he's sitting next to her, listening in.

"Malcolm, I'm talking to them," my stepmother scolds him.

I can't help but laugh. "We were thinking maybe next year in the autumn, after I've finished my Master's."

"Oh, that's a good choice, give you some time to plan."

"Are you going to have time then?" Father asks.

"Just put it on speaker," I say, trying not to sound exasperated. "If I finish on time I'll get done in September of next year, and there are LPC programmes that start in January, so I should have a few months' break."

"Sounds reasonable,” Father says.

“I'm sure Simon will be glad to have you to himself for a bit by then," Daphne says.  “That LLM is going to keep you so busy he’ll probably barely see you, so it’ll be nice for you to have some time together.”

Simon laughs, but it sounds like there’s an edge of anxiety he’s trying to hide. "You've got that right."

 

_ -Simon- _

We talk with Baz's parents for another fifteen minutes before we hang up, mainly fielding increasingly involved questions about magickal bonding rites that for a variety of reasons we haven't done and probably won't -- primarily because I had no idea about them until right now, but also in large part because for most of them it's not really possible for me to participate any more. Daphne seems to realize this before Malcolm does, and she eventually redirects the conversation; I don't find it terribly upsetting (I don't these days, I'm doing quite well) but I still appreciate having a bit less focus on one of the ways I'm a disappointment to The Family.

Baz also earns us points with everyone when he points out that we did the duel-defence thing like his parents did -- his actual parents, Natasha and Malcolm -- though of course we did it out of order because nearly all of my defending him from grievous bodily harm happened years before we realized that marriage was something we might ever want together.  (At the time we were actively interested in  _ causing  _ each other harm, but I still managed to protect him anyway.  Those first seven years seem weirder and weirder the longer we’re together.) But it appears to count, which is a point in our favour.

When we finally end the call Baz looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. He shakes his shoulders and lets his arms dangle, then rolls his head to loosen his neck. "God, I'm glad that's over."

"It wasn't bad at all," I say. "They took it really well."

"I knew they would, they do actually like you now."

"Daphne has  _ always  _ liked me," I point out. "And anyway, even if they didn't, they love you and they're happy that you're happy."

"I'm still glad it's done, breaking the news isn't half as nice as the initial getting engaged bit." He stands up, smiles at me, and picks up his phone. "Get some trousers on, we need to pop down to Costa and call Fiona."

"Why Costa?"

He rolls his eyes and heads into the bedroom. "You know why Costa, Snow."

"Yeah, okay. But why Costa immediately?"

"Because coffee is my reward for calling my father, and I have to tell Fiona before he does. She'll stake me dead if she hears it from anyone else."

I follow him, and catch him around the waist while he's opening a drawer. "Hey, wait a mo."

He twists his head to look at me, surprised. "What?"

"I've got something for you first." I give him a little kiss on the neck, then turn away and go to my bedside table.

He shoves the duvet out of the way, then sits down at the foot of the bed, watching me. I retrieve the little black leather case that I stashed in my drawer (I'd had it shipped to my mailbox in the Comp Sci department at school, to keep it secret), then come to sit beside him and hold it out.

His eyes are wide. "What's this?"

"Open it and see."

He takes it from me gingerly, runs his fingers over the debossed gilt monogram, and opens it. "What--" But he cuts off, realizing, and pulls out one of the collar stays, turning it over in his fingers, staring at it in disbelief. The engraving catches the light -- he's holding the one that says  _ Into my arms _ .

Eventually he looks up, and his eyes are glistening. "You had these made? For me?"

I grin. "I don't know anyone else who would use collar stays."

"You magnificent bastard." He drops the case on the bed and pulls me into a tight hug. "Oh, I don't deserve you," he breathes.

"Bullshit," I whisper into his shoulder, and my heart is full to bursting. "You deserve every wonderful thing in the world."

He leans back, but only enough so he can lean in again for a deep kiss. "Thank you."

"I only wish I'd had them when I first asked," I say, catching my breath. "I regretted afterwards not having something to give you, like a ring."

He smiles, shakes his head, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "You know I'd never in a million years wear a diamond ring, even if you could afford one."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I got these."

"Wow." He wipes his eyes with his wrist, then picks up the case again and tucks the one back in alongside the other three. "This is … this is so sweet, Simon, I really don't know what to say."

I thread my fingers through his. "Just say yes again."

He squeezes my hand, and gives me a cheeky smile. "You've got to ask first."

"Oh, if I must." I brush a kiss across his knuckles, then look him in the eye. My heart is racing, and his name on the tip of my tongue feels like the most intimate thing in the world. "Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, will you marry me?"

"Yes, Simon." He's breathless, and his smile is as big as I've ever seen it. " _ Always and evermore _ ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The engraving on the collar stays is "I love you"/"Simon & Baz" and "into my arms"/"always & evermore", which is a reference to "Into My Arms" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, as featured in the epilogue. [Listen on YouTube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEUgORVsECs)


	5. Act 2, scene ii

_ -Baz- _

It takes us a little longer than I'd expected to get to the Costa in the next street, but we're both feeling quite relaxed when we get there, not to mention even more in love and riding high on a haze of hormones. Snow stakes out the tiny table in the corner by the window while I place our usual order: double Americano with cream for him, mocha-hazelnut cappuccino for me (and Matty is working today, so I actually get it perfectly right without having to explain all my modifications), and three pains au chocolat.

Snow stuffs half a pastry into his mouth as soon as I set it down. "Delicious today?" I ask drily.

He nods, takes the lid off his coffee to enjoy the aroma. Matty knows not to put a cover on mine, so I can enjoy the mountain of whipped cream with chocolate dust. I stick my tongue into it decadently; I can feel my fangs pushing out, and even though I still feel compelled to hide them, I also know that nobody's watching but Snow, and he's seen them ten thousand times. So I do my best to push the worry aside, like I always do, and refocus on the coffee. It's perfect, of course, so then I tackle one of the pastries and take it down in four bites, just as Simon's starting on his second.

Two minutes later we're both feeling fed, so I get out my phone and we each put in one of my earbuds.

I had texted Fiona earlier to let her know to expect my call, and she texted back shortly after, so I’m not at all surprised when she picks up the phone immediately.  Her tone of voice is entirely too chipper for this time of the morning, even if she is a couple hours ahead of us on the Continent. "Hallo, Baz!"

"Hello, Fiona. Say hello, Snow."

"Hello, Snow," he says cheekily, and Fiona laughs.

"You two on the headset in a coffee shop?"

"No," I lie, at the same time as Snow says "Yes."

Fiona laughs again. "God, it's so good to hear from you, I've been away from London too long. What's happening?"

"You mean besides coffee?" he asks.

"Well, obviously, I know you're having coffee, because you're always at the Costa in Cowcross Street when you call me together."

Snow affects a shocked tone: "Baz, have we become  _ predictable _ ?"

"Dear me, I fear we have!" I say.  He giggles, and I put my arm over the back of his chair as an excuse to lean into him. "What do you say, Snow, shall we give her a surprise?"

He turns his face towards me, grinning, and I resist the urge to kiss him. "Go for it."

Fiona is silent; I think she's holding her breath, and I wonder if she's guessed. (If anyone in my family had, it would be her.) "Simon asked me to marry him, and I said yes."

She squeals in delight, and Simon tips his head into the side of my face, mashing his bronze curls against my temple; they smell like the curl creme I bought him. I brush a kiss onto his forehead. It's actually sort of fun, telling Fiona, which I didn't quite expect; maybe it's because I care what she thinks. "Oh my god,  _ Basil _ , that's fantastic! Congratulations!"

"Thanks, Aunt Fiona."

"Have you told your dad yet?"

"Yeah, he and Daphne were first this morning, sorry."

"After Penny," Simon adds.

"Oh, right. Yeah, Bunce was the very first. We told her right away."

"What right away?" Fiona asks, sounding suspicious. "How long have you been secretly engaged?"

"It wasn't secret," Simon protests.

"Six weeks," I say. "He asked me after we got home from drinking with you to celebrate my acceptance to UCL."

"He proposed in the middle of the night while you were  _ drunk? _ "

"I wasn't drunk."

"I was, a bit," Simon says. "Only a little."

Fiona barks a hearty guffaw. "I love you crazy fucks."

"Takes one to know one," I say, and she laughs again.

"God, Baz, I do miss you. But, anyway, engagement. I've got to ask the question that everyone will be asking: have you set a date?"

"No, not yet. Thinking about next autumn."

"Good, that gives me time to arrange my schedule to line up with yours, because I'll be damned if I'm missing your wedding. Next question: is it going to be at the club?"

I can't help but groan. "Absolutely  _ not _ ."

"That was an option?" Simon says, slightly horrified.

"Of course it wasn't, you're the Mage's Heir. They wouldn't let you as far as the car park, even if you are marrying a Pitch."

"Not to mention the gay thing," Fiona adds, and Simon huffs.

"I can't believe that's still a thing. Come on, it's twenty years into the twenty-first century, we're living in the  _ future _ ."

"Gene Roddenberry would be appalled," Fiona agrees.

"There's only forty-three years until first contact!" He's on a rant now, and getting into territory that's unfamiliar for me. "We don't want the Vulcans to show up and still see us disagreeing over something like  _ human rights _ ."

"Darling," I say quietly.

"How can we be expected to form a United Fed-- what?"

"Science fiction," I say.

"Goals," Fiona counters.

"Changing the subject entirely," I say, trying to get away from Star Trek before I get entirely left behind. "Fiona, we did want to ask you if you'd take a central role in the wedding."

She gasps before she can stop herself. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, we were hoping you'd officiate."

She's actually quiet for a moment. "Wow, Basil, I don't know what to say."

"You could say yes," Simon suggests, and she snorts a laugh.

"Yes, all right. I'd be honoured to officiate your wedding, I'm really flattered."

I smile at Simon, and he takes my hand. "Thanks so much for agreeing,” I say.  “The families will be glad you’re involved."

"Ooh, you sneak! This is all for the family?"

"Not  _ all. _ "

She chuckles. "I understand. So who's your best man?"

"He asked Penny first," Simon says. "She said no, because she's already agreed to be my maid of honour."

"I don't think your dad would have have been happy about that," Fiona teases.

"I'm going to ask Dev," I say. "Seeing as I've known him my entire life and he hasn't bailed on me yet."

"That's sweet," she says. "The family will like that, too." She only sort of sounds like she's mocking -- the family  _ will  _ like that, and Dev was obviously going to be invited anyway, since he's my second cousin. Plus, after Snow and Bunce, he is actually my closest friend.

"But anyway," she continues, "since you're not having the wedding at the club, where were you thinking?"

"The house in Oxfordshire, I expect."

"It had better be. There's a load of Pitch family traditions that have to be upheld, and as your official ... officiant, I'm going to insist on all of them. Which means it'll have to be on family land."

Simon groans, and I chuckle. "We've been over all of that with Father and Daphne this morning."

"What fun."

"Well, you know, baggage. We've got time to deal with that."

"That's a nice thing about a longish engagement." There's a noise in the background. "Shit."

"What?"

"Time's up for now, I'm afraid. Things to do."

"Oh, really?" Simon says, clearly disappointed -- not for the first time I feel fortunate how well he and Fiona have put their past behind them.

"Yeah, sorry. You boys aren't my whole life."

"We'll let you go," I say. "Give me a ring sometime, okay? We've got things to plan."

"You got it. Take care, Baz. Simon, take care of him."

"I will," he promises.

"Bye, Fiona."

I disconnect the call, and Simon pulls his earbud out and hands it to me. "That went great."

"Of course it did. You know, she actually asked me a year ago when I was going to make an honest man of you."

He grins at me. "Did she really?"

"At the time I was sure she meant it as a joke. I wasn't ready to think about it yet."

He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close; I can smell the espresso on his breath. "Well, I'm glad you are now."

I lift my chin and steal a kiss, and he indulges me for a moment before he turns away, blushing -- he's shy about kissing in public. Hugs are apparently no problem, but that's where he draws the line. It's the cutest thing in the world and I absolutely adore him for it.


	6. Act 2, scene iii

_-Rebecca-_

As soon as Simon came into the lab on Monday morning, I knew something was up: he's normally a cheerful bloke, but yesterday it was like the sun had risen just for him. I saw him kind of like this once before, back in March, I think? But at the time he also seemed like he was trying not to act like something exciting had just happened, so I didn't ask him about it, and he never said anything, and I sort of forgot about it, figured maybe he'd just had a really great cup of coffee that morning or something.

Yesterday, his joy was inescapable. I was in our usual corner when he came in, and he saw me right away when he came in, beamed at me, and practically bounced over. "Someone's got a case of the Mondays," I said to him, which made him laugh and blush, and then I _knew_ something had happened. But he said he wanted to share it with everyone at once, at our next tea on Tuesday afternoon.

I'm used to waiting for Simon to tell me things; he's not fantastic with words, and I've even seen him go non-verbal once, when something triggered his anxiety thing (which he also keeps mum about). I understand him being quiet. But him _deliberately_ keeping _good news_ from me is novel, and very exciting.

Comp Sci undergraduate tea happens once a week, on Tuesdays at three. It's not anything official, and we gave it a needlessly grand name; Simon and I started it last year with a few of our other friends in our year, so it's a loose group of approximately ten or fifteen people who we've been having classes with for three years now. By this point we're well enough established that other people actually clear out of the lounge at a quarter to three, and someone usually brings biscuits.

This week, Simon's brought his home-made scones. He's really a magnificent baker, though for some reason he never does any variations on these, they're always sour cherry. (They're always amazing, but also ... always the same.  He never experiments with other flavours like he does in his other recipes.) I mentioned to a couple of people yesterday afternoon that he has something to tell us, so the group is on the bigger side today, about eighteen people. Everyone who comes in says hi to Simon, and gives him a meaningful look, which he inexpertly deflects, like he’s pretending nothing is going on, though obviously everybody knows that's not true.

Finally, at five after three, he stands up and clears his throat, and every eye in the room is on him. "So, I'm sure you've all heard that I've got some news," he says hesitantly, "and, well, here it is." He takes a breath, glances at me, licks his lips, and he can't help grinning when he speaks. "I asked my boyfriend to marry me, and he said yes."

_Simon got engaged! He's going to get married!_

There's a collective delighted gasp from the room, and spontaneous applause. I leap up to hug Simon at the same time as Gennady and Julia do and we crush him between us. He's laughing, and blushing, and I'm so happy for him I hardly know what to do with myself. "Simon, that's _fantastic_!" I finally manage. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks, thank you," he says, letting go of all of the hugs and picking up his teacup again. "God, it's so good to finally tell everyone!"

"Finally?" I raise my eyebrows at him meaningfully. "How long have you been keeping it quiet?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "I actually asked him six weeks ago, but we've only started telling people on Saturday."

I can't help making a triumphant whoop. "I _knew_ it! I knew you were keeping a happy secret in March!"

"So when's the big day?" Julia asks, and Simon laughs nervously.

"We're not completely sure yet. Probably next year in the autumn, after Baz finishes his Master's degree."

"Going to be a big wedding?"

"Well, his family's absurdly rich, so probably, yeah."

Everybody has a laugh at that, even though Simon's still fairly pink, and I know he didn't mean it as a joke -- his future in-laws _are_ absurdly rich, to the point that he doesn't even really have a concept of how rich they are. I've met his other half, Basil, a few times, and he's the other side of the coin -- so used to having money that he doesn't really have a concept of it, of what it is to try to live on a budget.

"We have to take you out to celebrate!" Gennady says. "We should go this weekend, like Friday evening."

Simon glances at me. "No, not Friday night, Becca can't come then. What about Saturday?"

I smile at him, and nod -- Simon really is a great friend, for remembering, for making a point to be sure I'm included.  Most people don't pay attention to my religion. It's not exactly secret, but I feel invisible so much of the time anyway, surrounded by Christians and atheists. Other students always want to do things after classes get done on Friday, right when the weekend starts. Everybody forgets that Friday night is Shabbat.

Everybody except Simon. When we say goodbye on Friday afternoons, me heading to temple, him off to his football club, he always wishes me _Shabbat shalom,_ which is immensely sweet, especially coming from a goy.

Planning for a Saturday night celebration is going on around me while I'm introspecting. They seem to have decided on the pub we usually go to; it's got a table in the back that's just right for our group, and it's only a few blocks from campus. It's actually quite near the Apple store where Simon used to work in Covent Garden, so we would all meet up there a lot, back when we had time for school and part-time jobs _and_ drinking out. There's a few who can't make it this weekend, apparently, but it seems like we'll be a good ten or so.

"You're bringing Basil, right?" I ask Simon, and he seems surprised.

"Oh. That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"We are celebrating the _two_ of you."

"I don't know if he's available."

"He doesn't have time to go out with you on a Saturday night?" Julia teases.

Simon looks uncertain. "He's really busy these days."

"Try to get him to come," Gennady says. "We have to make sure he's good enough for you."

 

***

 

Every time I see Basil, I'm struck by how intensely _cool_ he is. He looks like a menswear model, and he's always kitted out in something that's obviously expensive and clearly flawlessly tailored, even when I've just seen him at home on a weekend. He's in casual clothes tonight, perfect jeans and a pale blue button-up with a green cardigan, even though it's fairly warm tonight. He should look like my grandpa, but instead he just looks delicious. And he's wearing his hair down, loose around his shoulders, which lends him an extra layer of ethereal beauty.

(I might have a crush on him. I can't help it, he's too gorgeous. But I also know it's _never_ going to happen, so I keep it to myself, and just enjoy looking at him. Enjoy how obviously smitten with him Simon is, because I do love seeing Simon so happy.)

Simon and Basil have met me at my building, and we walk the few blocks to the pub together. They're holding hands while we walk down the street, and Simon can't stop grinning at him, and Basil is doing this thing where he smiles with his eyes and one corner of his mouth and looks like he's plotting something. (Something nice probably, like roses, or kittens. But he's very mysterious. He's going to be a shark of a barrister.) (Or was it solicitor? I can't remember. Some crush I've got.)

Emmy, Mia, and Other Dave are already there when we arrive, and Simon does introductions, including trying to explain Other Dave without Dave being there for context. Basil has his arms folded throughout, and looks like he's biting back a ferocious smile. (I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so in love as he does right now, watching Simon fumble adorably for words.) About ten minutes after we sit down with our drinks Gennady and Julia arrive, followed by Dan and Corey right behind them. Basil keeps glancing around the table and murmuring names under his breath.

This is about eighty percent of our usual group, which I feel good about -- it's all the people Simon's closest to at school, all the people who are eager to celebrate his happiness. He's relaxed, at ease, keeps touching Basil gently, possessive little caresses.

Since everyone who's coming is here now, I stand up. "I'd like to propose a toast to the happy couple," I say, and Simon blushes while everyone else grins at him. "Simon, you’ve been a great friend to all of us over the past three years, and I'm so happy you’ve found the love of your life. Basil, you're a very lucky man, and we're trusting you to take care of Simon. I'm sure you're up to the task."

"Good that one of us is sure," he says drily, and everyone laughs, including Simon, who brushes a kiss to his cheek.

"I'm honoured to be celebrating with you tonight, and I wish you every happiness in your future together. To Simon and Basil."

"Simon and Basil!" the others echo, clinking glasses around, and after we drink Emmy asks them for a kiss. Julia and Dan chime in, and they turn to each other, almost shy, and share a sweet caress.

"You'd best get used to that," Mia says. "Kissing publicly, I mean. My brother got married last summer and he said the best thing about it being over is nobody's clamouring to see them kiss any more."

"Do they not kiss any more since they got married?" Simon says, confused.

"Not for the pleasure of a crowd," Basil murmurs to him, and Mia nods.

Simon blushes. "Oh. Right."

"He says once you get back from the honeymoon you're not newlyweds any more," Mia continues. "Just another married couple who sometimes do embarrassing things in public."

"I'll show the whole world," Basil says, leaning over and pressing his lips to Simon's neck, which makes him turn even redder.

"Baz, what the hell?" he hisses. "You're never like this."

Basil is looking at Simon through his eyelashes and making a face that's so seductive it's almost indecent. "Am I not?"

Simon holds him steady with a hand on his face and pulls him into a deep kiss, a passionate one, and just as a couple of us are starting to get uncomfortable Basil breaks away with an embarrassed look.

"Yes, very good, you've called my bluff."

Simon's face is still quite pink, but he looks pleased with himself, and there's a round of relieved laughter from the table.

The conversation gradually turns to other topics, perhaps unsurprisingly our current coursework, and in particular, our capstone projects. Since I'm paying attention to Basil (I always seem to pay a little too much attention to Basil) I notice that he's trying not to look slightly lost and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of jargon. But Simon has noticed too, and puts his arm around his shoulders, and Basil leans into him minutely, looking a bit more at ease.

Basil joins in again when the topic shifts to plans for after graduation, though at that point Simon starts looking nervous, and physically flinches when Corey turns to him. "Simon, have you interviewed with anybody yet? I thought Ginsburg was saying you had a bunch of interest."

"A _bunch_?" Basil says, raising an eyebrow. "I haven't heard anything about that."

Our classmates look at one another uneasily, and Simon looks like he's trying to hide behind his hand. "Yeah, I've got ... a couple."

Basil is getting an intense look on his face that's a little intimidating. "What's _a couple_ , Snow?"

Simon's got both hands on his face now. "Fifteen."

" _Fifteen?_ " It bursts through his composure, shocked disbelief, and everybody else mirrors him -- even I didn't know Simon had got that many interview invitations. We know he's brilliant, of course -- even though he seems not to know -- but we had no idea potential employers liked his CV that much.

Simon looks like he's about to start crying. "Yeah, I -- I'm sorry, Baz, I just ... I don't ...."

Basil shakes himself, and his whole demeanour changes -- he suddenly becomes soft, concerned.  He takes Simon’s hands, gently draws them down a bit, away from his face. The rest of us are staring but we can't look away. "Hey, Simon, take it easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe."

Simon gasps in a lungful of air. It's almost a sob. Not quite.

"Simon, _Simon_ , it's okay. You're okay."

"I'm -- you --"

"Shh, Simon, it's okay." He has one hand on his shoulder now, the other on the side of his face; it's very intimate. Mia, Emmy, and Other Dave have averted their gaze and are pretending to look at something else in the room, even though they're trapped right next to all of this. The rest of us are looking at each other, wondering if there's anything we could say or do.

Basil meets my eye, gives me an intense look, and I understand instantly: I stand up, step back, and he carefully ushers Simon away from the table. "We'll be right back," he mutters, and takes Simon outside.

Everyone is just sitting here, stunned, silent, staring after them. Corey has gone extraordinarily pale, and he's the first one to speak: "Was ... was that a bad thing for me to say?"

"Obviously it _was,_ " Dan says.

I shake my head. "It's not your fault."

"It was an innocent enough question," Emmy says. "You had no idea he'd ... that."

"What _was_ that?" Mia says, and I know that's what everyone is thinking; they look at me.

I grimace and shrug. "Simon, he ... he's got some issues."

"No kidding," Other Dave deadpans.

"I mean, like ... actual issues." I sigh and sit back down, sliding in so I'm beside Emmy. "It's not my place to tell, but he's been through some shit in the past. And don't ask me what it was, because I don't know. But I know that Basil was there with him, they went through it together."

Everyone is quiet, looking at their drinks. "He did kind of mention it once," Julia says. "I don't remember what he said, but I got the feeling that he has some big secret he's not telling."

I nod. "Yeah, he does."

"But he seems so ... fine," Corey says. "I've never seen him lose it like that."

"I think he _is_ fine," Emmy says. "He just ... I don't know, something about job applications freaked him out."

"To be fair, job applications are _terrifying_ ," Gennady adds, and there's a round of murmured agreement.

After a short silence, Other Dave clears his throat awkwardly. "So, um ... I don't really want to say this in front of Simon, but ... does anyone else see them and feel like they can't believe people our age are actually getting married?"

Dan nods vigorously, and Corey and Mia make sounds of agreement too. (Gennady and Julia are almost suspiciously non-reactive -- Julia has mentioned to me in confidence that she's hoping Gennady will propose to her, and I think he knows.)

"They're not our age, though," Emmy points out. "They're two years older than we are. Simon started university late, and I think Basil's even a little bit older than he is."

Mia shrugs dismissively. "That's hardly anything. That makes them, what, twenty-three?  Twenty-four?"

"But they're also not getting married just yet," Emmy adds. "Not for another year."

"Still."

"I guess maybe you just know, sometimes," I say. "When somebody's the one. They've been together a long time, and known each other even longer. They're ready to commit, ready to be a family, the two of them."

Emmy and Julia nod in agreement; Other Dave raises an eyebrow at me. "That sounds fake, but okay."

We all turn when we hear the door open, and Simon and Basil come back in, looking themselves again. Basil keeps his hand on Simon's back for their walk across the room back to our corner. His body language makes it look possessive, but the way Simon leans into him I get the feeling it's actually comforting.

"All right, Simon?" Corey says, forced casual. (Immensely awkward.)

Simon smiles at him and nods as he and Basil sit back down. "Yeah, I'm all right, thanks mate."

Corey breathes an un-subtle sigh of relief, and I pass Basil his drink, since I'm in the seat that was his before. He seems a little surprised, like he'd forgotten about it ... which it occurs to me maybe he did. It's a stout or a porter or something, and he's barely touched it, basically just sipped the foam. But he pushes back what's left of my cider in return, so I try not to think about it.

We stay for about another hour, another round of drinks, but we never quite get back to the easy camaraderie we had before Simon freaked out. We get close, when Corey and Mia get going on a riff about Simon being Basil's trophy husband, but even that is undercut with our knowledge that Simon's not as okay as we thought he was.  That he’s been feeling anxious and bottling it up to the point that he … couldn’t hold it in any more.  I’ve seen him have anxiety attacks a couple of times, in the past, but the others haven’t.  They had no idea, and this came crashing out of the blue.  I guess that’s how panic attacks are, but I still feel like we should have noticed _something_ , had some indication that he was having a hard time.  Is he that good an actor?

When Simon finally says it's late enough that he and Basil have to get going, I'm ready to head home myself, and Gennady and Julia and Emmy get up too. After our goodbyes we all walk outside together, and while Emmy is giving Simon a hug, I notice Julia touching Basil's arm and tipping her head towards him.

"Take care of him," she murmurs, and I even though I can barely hear her I can tell she's using her most serious voice, and of the group of us she's got the best one. "We're trusting you."

Basil looks almost surprised at first, and then nods, solemnly. "I will. I promise."

Emmy is done with Simon now, and when we've all said good night one last time she takes Julia by the arm and they and Gennady head north together, while Simon and Basil and I start walking east.

Our short walk back to my building is quiet, but not uncomfortably so, and Simon gives me a tight hug. "See you Monday," he says.

"Take care," I reply, and he gives me a warm smile before I turn to my front door, digging out my key card from my pocket. When the door closes behind me I turn around, and through the window I can see them heading off down the street, hand in hand.

It's hard to believe we're graduating so soon, that our group is going to be splitting up, going off into the real world. Hard to believe I'm not going to be seeing everyone all the time -- seeing Simon all the time. I've been trying not to think about it, because really, what's the point? But it's hitting me right now, that there's only five weeks left of this.

I can't deny I'm worried about Simon. I know he's been having a hard time, trying to adjust to what's about to happen.  Today more than ever I feel like I have a sense of how hard it’s been for him.  And I wonder if him getting engaged to Basil right now is related to that, like he's ... trying to anchor himself to something familiar? Grab onto something to steady himself?

It's not that I think they're making a mistake, because it does honestly seem like they're perfect for each other, that they're doing this for all the right reasons. I meant it when I said that Basil is the love of his life.  But the fact remains that Simon is the _only_ person I know my age who's got engaged.  (Well, except for a couple of my cousins who are really religious and wanted to have babies right away.  Which is even more unbelievable to me than getting married….)

I guess I should try to not overthink this so much. It's like I said to the group: some people just know, and they're ready to choose each other. And Simon and Basil have known each other for over ten years, so it's not like they just met. They know who they're marrying.

I may be worried about Simon, but I trust him on this, and I trust Basil. I have a feeling deep in my gut that this is one thing that is going to go right for them.

I don't presume I'll get invited to their incredibly posh wedding, but I'm going to have to get the group together to give them something nice, when the time comes. Maybe I'll knit them socks, the wedding's not for at least a year yet so I've probably got time.  If I start right away I might even get both pairs done….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meme education (see number three): http://www.buzzfeed.com/annamenta/sounds-fake-but-okay#.ad2ae5bOP


	7. Act 2, scene iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken creative liberties with the academic calendar at U Chicago. I know that they're on a quarter system in real life. I needed them to be on semesters for this story.
> 
> Song links in the end note.

_-Penny-_

The redeye flight from Chicago O'Hare to Heathrow is exactly as awful as it always is, and so is customs, but Dad is waiting for me as soon as I clear security and it's never been so good to see him.  He buys me a cup of tea before we head to the car -- he was horrified by the dearth of good tea in America, though I don’t find it as awful as he does.  When you’ve got your own place and people sending you care packages of Yorkshire Gold, you can make it at home just fine.  Though it’s wonderfully familiar to be able to go into a shop and just order tea without having to describe it.

I'm in London for eight whole days, and I know I should be spending time with my family, but Premal and Pacey have their own lives, and Mum and Priya and Pip are all still up at Watford (where I have no interest in going) so it's mostly going to be me and Dad at home.  This means that I didn't get much resistance to my master plan to go see Simon immediately after I get my feet back on English soil, and stay with him until Sunday when he has to kick me out to go back to his studies.

It's immensely obnoxious that I'm on a break while everyone here still has classes.  The spring semester of my PhD program at the University of Chicago finished in the beginning of May and I have to be back by the first week of June for my summer courses, so the only time I have at home is right now, in the middle of May, while everyone here is preparing for examinations.

I'll take what I can get, though, since I am in absolutely _desperate_ need of Simon Time.  We haven't seen each other in person in nearly a year, which is far too long.  Micah didn't really want me to go, which is understandable -- after having a long-distance relationship for so many years it's been positively blissful to actually live with him.  But I'll be back in the Windy City soon enough, and Simon Time is sacred and I will be _damned_ if anything in the 'verse keeps me from him.  Especially right now, with him recently engaged to the love of his life, which requires the best celebration I can provide.

After I spend the obligatory couple of hours with Dad at home, I pack a small bag with just enough things for two nights and take the Tube into the city.  It's Friday, which means Simon and Baz have a football club thing in the late afternoon, and I've been texting secretly with Baz to arrange to meet them there and surprise Simon.

I get to their pitch in Regent's Park about fifteen minutes before they're scheduled to finish, and I don't see Baz, but Simon is out on the pitch.  He's on the team that's wearing white shirts, and he's dripping sweat, his hair damp and flopping around while he runs after the ball.  It's not as floppy as when we Skyped a week ago, though, and even from here I can tell he got it cut very recently because the fresh buzz on the sides and back always makes his head look kind of like a tennis ball.

A minute later someone on his team scores, and in the celebration after the goal he notices me sitting on the sideline, and stumbles over his trainers and almost falls on his face.  I grin and wave; he looks like he wants to dash over but he re-focusses on the game.

He does run over to me when they're finished, and I stand up just in time to be lifted off my feet by a sweaty tornado of Simon.  He smells disgusting but I'm too happy to be here with him to care.

When I finally get my feet flat on the ground again, Simon is flushed and grinning.  "I thought you were coming later!"

"I know!  I wanted to surprise you."

"You did!" he laughs.  "Best surprise _ever_."

"I thought your other half would be here, though," I say, glancing around at the other footballers.  "He helped me plan it."

"That rat," Simon says.  "Yeah, he was supposed to be here, but he texted me this afternoon that he had school work to finish instead.  Said he'd meet me at home."

"Change of plans!" calls a familiar baritone, and we both turn to see Baz himself jogging towards us, looking pleased and slightly windswept.  (I'm startled for a second by how long his hair is -- to his shoulders, longer than I've ever seen it.  It's quite dramatic.)  "I got done early.  Glad I caught you."  He nods a greeting at their football mates before he kisses Simon on the cheek, then turns to me.  "Welcome home, Bunce."

I wrap my arms around his neck and he gives me a warm hug.  "It's great to see you, Baz."

"Glad you could make it.  Snow hasn't shut up about your visit for weeks."

"I really haven't," Simon agrees.  "I've been driving him up the wall."  He sits down on the grass to peel off his shin guards and change his shoes, then exchanges his sweat-soaked shirt for a dry one.  He pulls a bottle of water out of his sport bag before he stands up and collects his backpack as well.  "Right.  Let's head home and get dinner going, I'm hungry."

I take his arm and we all start walking.  "What are we having?" I ask.

"I was thinking pizza," Simon says.  "I mean, originally I was thinking you'd be later, so I was going to have something first, but we should order right away now that you're here."

"I know you remember how Snow turns into a ravenous monster after football practice," Baz says drily.  "Eats every snack in the house if nobody stops him."

I laugh, remembering how I used to hide chocolate from Simon in my bedroom if I wanted to be sure it was still mine at the end of the week.

"You're one to talk," Simon says.  "Baz has this, like, electrolyte thing or something?  After he's been working out he craves salt and vinegar crisps and sometimes he goes through a whole bag."

"Not a big bag," Baz protests.  "And you don't like them, so it's not like I'm eating your stuff."

"You did it back at Watford too.  It makes your breath smell gross."

"How dare!" Baz says, mock offended.  "I never smell gross."

"In your dreams," I say.  "I remember those bloody crisps.  Every time I smell vinegar it makes me think of you."

Simon is giggling.  "That's not the worst smell you could associate with him."

I roll my eyes.  "Take your word for it.  But it's _confusing_ \-- Micah's best friend Maryam likes those crisps too.  I don't get it at all."

Baz snorts.  "It's not my fault that none of you have good taste in snack foods.  I should meet this Maryam, I think I'd like her."

"You should _not_ meet Maryam," Simon says.  "Because I don't want our flat to be filled with new disgusting flavours of crisps.  Like ... dill pickle, or some shit."

Baz wrinkles his nose playfully, and if he were anyone else I'd expect him to stick out his tongue.  "I'm going to invite her to the wedding."

"No!"  Simon’s normally-subtle Lancashire accent pops out on the vowel; I catch Baz's eye and we both suppress a giggle.

"Why not?” Baz says, mimicking the accent, and I don’t think Simon even notices.  “She can be Bunce's plus-one."

"Micah's my plus-one," I say.

"You can have two plus-ones," Simon says.  (Apparently in the last ten seconds he's changed his mind about Maryam being invited.)  "They index from zero for you, since you were almost Baz's maid of honour as well as mine.  I think you're entitled."

"Speaking of," I say.  "Baz, how'd it go asking Dev to be your best man?"

Baz smiles, almost bashful, and looks down at his feet.  "It was great.  He was really chuffed."

"So he said yes?"

"Of course he did," Simon chimes in.  "They're cousins, how could he not?"

I shake my head.  "I'll give you a pass on family dynamics, Simon.  That's not how cousins work."

"It also gave me a chance to just ask him outright how he feels about Simon," Baz continues.

"I thought he likes me now?" Simon says, sounding unsure.

"Oh, he does, don't worry," Baz reassures him.  "Has done for years now.  But I wasn't sure if it was just for my sake.  And he told me it was, at first, but you grew on him."

Simon sighs.  "I seem to be doing that with your family, now that they don't think I'm going to steal their magic any more."

Baz raises his eyebrows.  "Well, you're _not_.  That's definitely a part of it."

"Think of it this way, Simon," I say.  "Now that all of that's in the past, they're willing to get to know the real you.  The one that Baz and I have known all along.  What's not to like?"

He pauses just long enough to wrap me in a slightly sweaty hug.  "God I've missed you, Penny."

We continue south out of the park, and once we get on the Tube Baz pulls out his phone, and our pizza order is in before we get off the train at Farringdon.

By the time we make it up to their flat I can actually hear Simon's stomach growling.  As soon as we're in the door he drops his backpack under the table, throws his sport bag into the hall, and heads straight for the kitchen, where he takes out a little plastic tub of dried fruit and nuts from one of the cupboards.

I take a minute to look around: the flat looks a lot different than the last time I was here, which was just a couple days after they moved in.  At the time nothing was unpacked, the furniture was arranged a bit differently, and there were boxes everywhere.  Now, though, it looks nice.  It's clean and tidy, like a place this small has to be if it's not going to just be a complete mess.  They've even got a few decorations up on the walls -- they got a frame for Simon's _The Martian_ poster, and beside it on the wall between the couch and the television is one for _Better Call Saul_ , which makes it look sort of like Jimmy McGill is standing at a pay phone on Mars.

Simon and Baz sit on the couch, both nibbling on the bowl of trail mix. I perch on the arm next to Baz.  "Place looks good," I say.

"Thanks," he says, around a mouthful.  "I try."

"I help," Simon protests.  "I clean things."

Baz points accusingly at the bag lying in the hall.  "After you _create_ the mess in the first place."

Simon rolls his eyes.  "That's just _life_ , dude."

"I'm glad I packed light," I say.  "I didn't realize how tight it would be with three of us here.  This is quite a bit smaller than our place was, Simon."

"If you want I could stay at Fiona's tonight," Baz offers.  "I've just got school work to do, I won't be much fun.  And then you could sleep on the bed, Penelope."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, "I'm not kicking you out of your own home, Basil.  Besides which, I'm definitely not going to sleep where you and Simon shag."

Simon turns pink, as I'd hoped, and Baz smirks.  "Then where were you planning to sleep?  Out in the corridor?"

Simon and I both give him a playful smack for that, me on his shoulder, and Simon seems to overestimate and whacks him in the solar plexus, which elicits an undignified sound.

"Oof!  Jesus, Snow, watch yourself."

"Oh, sorry!"  Simon sounds genuinely concerned.  "Did I hurt you?"

"Only my dignity," Baz groans, standing up from the couch.  "I'm getting out of the line of fire, though.  You should go have a shower, by the way, you smell."

He looks down at himself; he's still in his football practice clothes and he definitely does have an odour situation happening.  "How long until the pizza gets here?"

"Long enough," I say.  "We won't eat it without you.  Go, bathe."

"Yeah, okay, I'm going."  He hands me the tub of nuts and gets up, and when he goes past Baz on his way towards the bathroom he gives him a poke in the ribs, which Baz swats away with a grin and a bitten-back laugh.

"You're still ticklish?" I say to him after Simon's closed the door.

"What do you mean, _still_?"

I shrug.  "You haven't, like, figured out how to be above all of this?  I thought that was a thing you were going to learn in law school."

He snorts, picks up his messenger bag off the chair.  "You give me too much credit, Bunce."

"I suppose you do live with Simon."

"He does tend to drag one down."

"I heard that!" Simon calls from the bathroom, right before the shower turns on.

Baz smiles, but there's something off about it, something ... sad?  It's gone before I can see any more than that, though, and he takes his laptop out of his bag and sets it up at the place at the table that's crammed into the corner by the end of the kitchen counter.

 

***

 

Simon and I are about an hour into _Spaceballs_ (our second movie of the evening, after _The Martian_ ) when Baz gets up from his little nest of work and goes into the bedroom.  He comes back a minute later having exchanged his jeans for navy blue pyjama bottoms and his shirt for a grey hoodie, then folds up into his chair again, legs crossed up on the seat.  He puts his earbuds back in and starts twitching one of his feet to the beat, and after a minute I can hear him humming under his breath, and then he seems to have forgotten we're there because he starts singing quietly:

_"Late night watching television, but how'd we get in this position..."_

I look at Simon, and he's looking at me, and we both burst into giggles.  "Is that what I think it is?" I whisper, and he nods.  I hit pause on the movie just before--

_"I really, really, really, really, really--"_ Baz starts, then notices us and gets the most picture-perfect _busted_ look on his face.

Simon laughs out loud, and Baz scowls and pulls one side out of his ear.  "It's _your_ playlist, Snow."

"You were _singing_!" Simon gasps.  "You were singing Carly Rae Jepsen!"

He rolls his eyes.  "Fine, we'll have a sing-along."  And he pulls the headphones out of the jack, and turns the volume up as high as it will go on the tinny laptop speakers; I gesture towards it and cast **These go to eleven!** and the room is filled with sound.

_"Ooooh, did I say too much?"_ Baz croons along with Carly, in a perfect falsetto, standing up so he can gesture dramatically.   _"I'm so in my head, when we're out of touch!"_

Simon is standing by now, grinning like crazy, and pulls me up in a huge hug and we all join in for the best part:

_I really really really really really really like you!_

_"And I want you,"_ Baz sings, taking Simon's hand, _"do you want me?  Do you want me, too?"_

Baz seems to know all the lyrics to this song, and somehow we all join hands in a little circle in the middle of their tiny sitting room and dance around, and Baz does the verses beautifully and then Simon and I join in on the choruses and we're probably being far too loud for their neighbours downstairs and not one of us cares because it feels so _good_ to be together again.

When the song ends, Baz moves to turn it off, but Simon stops him when he hears the opening drum riff of the next one, and after a couple seconds Baz warms to Simon's huge grin.  It takes me a minute to recognize the song, which is a little embarrassing, because they're both singing along by then.  (Though, if this is a playlist of Simon's, probably they listen to it a lot, even if it's not a well-known song.)  I catch on when the chorus starts, though, and they're both dancing and belting it at each other:

_I-I get a little bit Genghis Khan,_   
_Don't want you to get it on with nobody else but me,_   
_With nobody else but me-e-e-e!_   
  
  
***   
  
  
The next morning Baz packs his bag and heads out after breakfast to a study group; Simon is obviously reluctant to let him go, keeps him in the doorway with one kiss after another until Baz finally puts his hands on Simon's shoulders and holds him gently back, and promises he'll be home before dinner.

Simon stays in the door while Baz goes down the stairs, and I come up behind him, put my arm around his waist.  "Just us today," I say.

Simon wraps his arms around my shoulders.  "I'm glad you're here, Penny."

I turn him around and shut the door so we can't hear Baz's footsteps echoing in the corridor.  "He's really working hard at school, isn't he?"

Simon sighs.  "Yeah.  He's away a lot, I don't get to see him much these days.  And even when he is here, he's always got work to do."

"He's almost done, though?"

"Yeah, a week after I am.  Just a month to go."

"You'll be okay."

Simon goes to the couch and flops down; I sit beside him.  "Yeah, I guess."  He takes a measured, shaky breath and rakes his hand through his hair.  "I'm just ... I'm worried that it won't.  Be okay, I mean."

"Why not?"

"He just ... he's so busy right now, and it's only going to get worse with the Master's next year.  I feel ... I feel alone a lot.  It's stressing me out."

I pull my feet up and lean into Simon.  "Have you told him?"

He shakes his head.  "How could I?  He doesn't need that, he's got his own things going on without having to deal with me too."

"Simon, his education isn't more important to him than you are."

He looks at me, confusion twisting his face.  "What?  Yes it -- that's cra -- wow.  Oh."

Which is not at all what I was expecting -- apparently he actually thought the opposite?  Simon can really be the worst kind of idiot sometimes.  "Are you serious?  You're getting _married_ , of course you're the most important thing in his life."

Simon looks like he'd never considered that and I've turned his world upside down.  "I ... I mean …” he stammers, swallows.  “I mean, I know he's the most important to _me_."

"He feels the same, you doofus.  Come on, he's been in love with you for half his life, he's planning a bloody _wedding_ with you.  You're the centre of his universe."

He still looks uncertain.  "It's just ... he's been distant recently."

"He wasn't last night."

Simon half smiles, but it's vanishing.  "It's not all the time, sometimes things are normal.  But we're not ... he's ... he's not all here, all the time."

"You said yourself he's busy, I'd expect that."

"He's been busy before, too, but ... I don't know."

"He wasn't like this a couple months ago when you proposed to him, was he?"

Simon furrows his brow.  "No, he ... he wasn't then.  Or maybe he was, I don't know."

"It started after?"

"Yeah, I guess.  I guess I noticed after."

I put my hand on his knee, trying to be comforting.  "How long ago?"

He shrugs.  "I don't know, really.  A couple of weeks?"

"Before you announced your engagement?"

Simon's starting to get agitated.  "I don't _know_ , Penny, okay?  I don't remember when I noticed.  It's not all the time, I mean, when we were telling people and whatever, things were great.  And last night, that was fun, I felt close to him.  But he ... he's not always himself, these days.  He's been quiet, and he looks sad a lot, and--"  He stops, takes a couple of deep breaths.  His hands are trembling.  "I'm _scared_ , Penny.  I think something's going on and I'm really worried that he's not telling me."

"Simon," I say, softly, and I'm trying to be gentle.  "You're running away with this.  He's stressed out from school, and you know he's never been good at ... talk."

He looks kind of miserable still, but he nods.  "You're probably right."

"Of course I am."  I squeeze his knee, and he gives me a rueful smile.  "Baz loves you, Simon.  He really, _really_ loves you.  You'll get through this.  Things may be a little rough right now but it'll be over before you know it."

He wraps his arms around me and leans his head on my shoulder.  "Thanks, Pen."

"Always happy to be the voice of reason."

"Do you really have to leave tomorrow?"

I sigh.  "You have to go to class on Monday.  I don't want to be in the way of you finishing school, not after I worked so hard to get you this far."

"Will I see you again before you go?  Next weekend?"

"Yeah, of course.  I'll make some time for you."

He holds me a little tighter, and I rest my cheek on the top of his head.  "Are _you_ okay?"

He sighs and leans into me harder.  "Sort of."

"Simon."

"Ngh."  He leans so hard he pushes me over sideways and hides his face in the top of my breast, arms still wrapped around my waist.  (It's slightly uncomfortable.  I don't mind.)  "No,” he sighs.  “I'm not okay."

I run my fingers through the peach fuzz on the back of his head.  "Anxiety?"

He takes a deep breath.  "Yeah."

"About anything in particular?"

"No, just ... everything."

"School?  Baz?"

"Everything."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He groans.  "No."

"Okay."  I push him gently, start peeling him off me.  "Get up.  We're going to go out and have fun today."

 

***

 

Baz gets home as promised in the late afternoon, quite soon after Simon and I have returned from Tesco with the groceries he needs to make dinner.  Baz looks tired, he's dragging, but he also seems glad to be back, and after I say hello I hide in the bathroom for a couple minutes so they can be alone together.

When I come back, Simon is just starting prepping his fried rice ingredients in the kitchen, and Baz goes to the music stand by the window and gets out his violin.  I've only heard him play rarely, though I know he was quite good.  Well, is quite good, I'm sure.  Not that I can really tell.  I pull the novel I'm reading out of my bag and curl up on one end of the couch.

Baz tunes the instrument carefully, by ear, and then picks up the bow and sets the violin on his shoulder without getting any music out.  He starts to play, slowly, a sound that's almost melancholy.  He's looking out the window, but he moves as he plays, and when he turns a little I can see his face in profile, and he looks sad, which gives me a prickle of worry.

Baz has always had resting bitch face; I'm used to seeing him look grouchy when he's just concentrating or relaxed.  But this is ... different.  It's not just his face's natural shape, he looks upset.  This is what Simon was telling me about.  This is what I thought I saw last night.

He turns away from me again, and I wonder if he saw me watching.  His hair is especially long right now, to his shoulders, and it blocks his face from my view.  The music continues, and Simon is still wrapped up in his work in the kitchen, listening but not paying attention.

I want to go back to my reading but I can't stop watching Baz.  When he finally finishes playing a few minutes later, he drops his bow arm to his side and shakes it, then lowers the violin, and I hear him sniff quietly, wetly, and he wipes his face with the back of his wrist before he turns.

I'm still staring, and he looks right at me, almost challenging.  But I'm not intimidated by him.  And his eyes are glistening.  "What was that?"

"Beethoven," he says shortly; his voice is rough and he clears his throat.  "Sonata number eight, second movement.  It was written for piano."

"He's been learning it by ear," Simon says from the kitchen, and Baz nods.

"It's not the same without the chords and the left hand."

"It was beautiful," I say.

Baz shrugs.  "It's Beethoven."  I suppose he thinks that's an explanation.  He looks down at his violin, frowns, twists a peg very slightly.

I take a deep breath.  "Are you okay?"

He looks up at me, horrified, like I fired a shot, and Simon's suddenly looking at him as well, his chef knife still.  Baz's expression shifts in an instant -- he clenches his jaw, narrows his eyes; then he glances at Simon and his hard expression falters for a moment.  "I'm fine."

"Baz--"

"I'm _fine_ ," he snaps, and he looks back to me sharply.  "Leave it, Bunce."

I purse my lips, and he holds my gaze for a moment before he starts putting his violin away.

Simon sets his knife down on the counter and wipes his hands on a towel, then walks over to him.  He reaches up to touch his face, but Baz flinches away, dodges it.

"Baz," Simon breathes, reaches again.  This time Baz doesn't move, lets Simon caress his cheek.  "It's okay," Simon says.

Baz doesn't answer, but closes his eyes for a moment, then gives Simon a tight smile before he takes half a step back.  "You should get back to your pak choi, Chosen One."

"It’s not going anywhere."

"It won't cook itself."

"I suppose not."  Simon smiles, a tiny bit.  "Do you want to open the wine right away?"

It almost seems like Baz is about to scowl, but his face is blank.  "If you want me to."

"I'd like a glass."

"Okay."  Baz leans in and kisses Simon's cheek, then looks at me.  "One for you too, Bunce?"

Stevie Nicks, do I need one.  "I'd love a glass, thanks."

He walks around Simon and goes to the fridge, and Simon looks to me.  "Do you want to put some music on, Penny?"

"Sure."  Anything to try to dispel the dark mood that's fallen over the room.  I pull out my phone and choose a playlist quickly -- pop hits of the early 2000s will probably work.  Simon has turned on their sound system and I hit play, but the first song is Avril Lavigne and a little too on-the-nose for what's happening right now, so I skip it as fast as I can.  Coldplay is next, and I figure it's safe.

When I look up Simon is back in the kitchen, about to continue with his vegetables, and watching out of the corner of his eye as Baz digs through a drawer for the corkscrew.  He seems frustrated -- after rattling around for a minute he starts taking things out and setting them on the counter a bit more firmly than he needs to.  I wonder why he doesn't cast a spell for it, but I don't ask.

Actually ... I haven't seen Baz take his wand out at all in the 24 hours I've been here.  Have they both gone Normal?  But that's ridiculous -- it's impossible that Basilton bloody Pitch would ever stop using his power.  Maybe he is just preoccupied with this law school thing.

 

***

 

Sunday morning brings grey skies and rain, and none of us have anything scheduled.  We fit in a little bit of wedding planning early in the day, working out some of the fun bits like colours and flowers and music.  They both love my idea of featuring a buttery-yellow breed of rose named for Julia Child, and it fits in nicely with Baz's surprisingly firm insistence that the other colour be purple.

We also start roughing in an outline for the day itself.  Baz's family want the wedding to be in the garden at the house in Oxfordshire, and it's probably going to be in early October, so we'll have to fit the ceremony in before it gets dark outside.  Simon expresses concerns about the weather, but Baz dismisses them casually -- there are enough powerful mages in his family to ensure that the conditions will be perfect.

Once we feel we've planned enough we eat a quick lunch, then spend a large portion of the afternoon all crammed together on the couch watching Netflix.  Baz falls asleep on Simon's shoulder after only twenty minutes, which strikes me as a bit odd -- he went to bed early last night, and slept late this morning.  But Simon says he has a lot of sleep debt from the week to make up, so I try not to worry about it, even though Simon sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

When Baz wakes up a while later he seems disoriented, and he's quieter than he usually is for the rest of the afternoon, not even joining in with Simon's and my sarcastic commentary on what we're watching.  If Simon notices he does a good job acting like he's not concerned.  Maybe he's glad to get a break -- Baz has always been a big talker (like me), and I know Simon appreciates the peace from time to time.

After dinner I pack up my things, and Simon and Baz walk me to Holborn Station to catch the train back to Hounslow.  It's difficult to say goodbye to them, even though I know I'll see Simon again on Saturday before I leave to go back to the States.  Baz gives me a tight hug, and I resist the urge to kiss his cheek, since I'm probably not going to see him next weekend, which means this is goodbye for several months at least.  I hope I'm wrong about his sadness, about the issues he seems to be having.  I hope he is just stressed from school.

Simon does get a kiss on the cheek with his hug, and I try to pretend I don't notice the tears in his eyes before I turn and go into the station.

 

***

 

The week with my family goes by quicker than I expected, and before I know it it's my last day in London and Simon comes out to visit for the afternoon.  He hangs out with me while I'm packing, and it feels just like it used to, when we were inseparable.  I wish I didn't have to go, but I have my life in Chicago to get back to.  I have Micah to get back to.  I hate being long-distance with Simon, but we've been making it work, it's okay.  We have technology.

When it's time for him to go, saying goodbye is almost impossible, after the week we've had.  Simon always opens up to me a lot more when we're in person, and I'm still having a hard time with his admission that he's been feeling anxious a lot recently, more than he has in a while.  It's especially worrying that he told me while we were out doing touristy shit last Saturday, since it's always fucking pulling teeth to get him to talk about his emotions, and he just kind of ... laid it on me.  I don't mind that he did, not at all; that's what best friends are for.  But I'm a little worried because it was so easy to get it out of him, which means it must be worse than he's letting on.  I feel horrible leaving him while he's having a hard time.  It feels like years ago, when the shit hit the fan and all we had was each other.

Right after Watford, Simon was pretty fucked up.  All three of us were, really, but Simon to the point that he was barely functional -- there was an entire month where he wouldn't speak to anyone but me or Baz.  But we got him into therapy, and he began his difficult healing process.

He did get better, even though it wasn't right away.  (Those first few weeks I was afraid he would be like that forever.)  The waking up screaming every night was the first thing to go, thankfully, followed by the daily sobbing panic attacks.  By the time Baz came to spend his Easter break in London, Simon was down to only about one freakout per week, and by the time he went up to Watford in June (which I still think was insane), he hadn't had one in nearly a month.

And then Simon and I got our flat, and we all started university.  The transition was tough, but Simon got through it with only a couple of anxiety events.  He did weekly Skype sessions with his therapist Jeri for the first two years that we lived together, and in the third year, after he got through getting his wings and tail off and everything that went with that, they started having them less frequently.  What I understand now is they check in about once a month, though Simon said he's been so busy recently that it's been a bit longer than that since he last talked to her.

I know that he's not cured, though, that his anxiety disorder is still there, that it still colours the way he sees the world.  There are still things, everyday things, that freak him out, but he's become good at dealing with them.  I only hope he can keep dealing with the things that are happening to him right now.  (I hope this thing that's going on with Baz isn't actually a thing.)

After dinner with Dad and a Skype call with Mum, I go to bed early in preparation for my flight tomorrow morning -- I have to get to the airport before dawn since it’s transatlantic.  But I can’t get to sleep, I keep worrying about Simon.  I’m sure he’ll be fine, but I’m also … not sure that he’ll be fine.  Which is _stupid_ but I can’t shake it.

I grab my phone and text him.   _I miss you already._

There’s only a minute before I get the read receipt, and then he’s typing.   _I miss you too Pen.  I wish you could stay longer_

_I know, me too._  I pause, psyching myself up.   _Simon, I want you to do me a favour._

I feel like he hesitates before he writes back, but I’m probably imagining it.  It’s probably processor lag.   _Sure what_

I take a breath, like if I were speaking.   _I want you to make an appointment with Jeri really soon.  It’s been too long, right?_

I’m sure this is a hesitation this time, and the typing bubble pops up and disappears a couple times before I finally get his message:   _I’ll try._

I purse my lips in frustration.   _Do or do not, Simon.  You’re stressed out which means you need to talk to her._

_I’m doing okay._  His reply is too fast.

_Simon, you really aren’t.  You told me so yourself._

_It’s not that bad I was just having a rough day last weekend._

I feel like he’s lying.  Not to me, necessarily, but to himself.   _Please send Jeri an email and set up an appointment._

This is definitely a pause.  My screen dims before he replies.   _I will._

_Promise?_

_I promise.  I’ll email her right now._

Oh thank fuck, the boy saw reason.  It’s only through the relief now that I realise how uptight I was.  I give him a few minutes rather than texting back right away, and I get his next message right when I’m getting bored of my Instagram feed.

_Email sent._

_Thank you.  I need her to be looking after you when I’m not here._

He texts me the swirly hearts, and _Call me when you get home?_

_Of course.  I have to go to bed now so the jet lag doesn’t destroy me._

_Wait isn’t it earlier there?  If you’re beating jet lag shouldn’t you stay up later?  You could stay up all night at my place I’ve got movies we haven’t watched_

I laugh.   _Good night Simon.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow._

_Good night._

I plug my phone in and double-check my alarm, then get back into bed.  I feel better about Simon now -- hopefully he actually makes that appointment.  Jeri’s been a lifesaver for him, I know it’ll help him to talk to her about this.  And he’s only got a few more weeks before graduation.  I’m sure he’ll make it.  He’s made it this far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Really Like You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qV5lzRHrGeg)   
>  [Genghis Khan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_SlAzsXa7E)   
>  [Beethoven sonata "pathetique"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGq3-Fi_zQY)   
>  [Avril Lavigne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NPBIwQyPWE)


	8. Act 3, scene i

_-Baz-_

 I can't believe how tired I am.

My thesis is due at noon on Thursday. _Tomorrow_ , I remind myself; the sun has been up for an hour now and I'm only just getting home. It's three weeks before the solstice, so the sun comes up early, but still. It’s essentially done now, which is good; I just have the last proofread to do, and to make sure my footnotes and appendices and citations are in order. (I've never written anything with this many citations.) I'll have time tomorrow -- no, _today_ \-- to get that all finished. But I have to be certain I _do_ get it finished, because this is the most important essay of my academic career so far -- without it, I won't pass the GDL, and that means I won't start at UCL in September, and I probably will never recover if that happens and I won't become a solicitor and then I don't know what I would do with myself. (I have been trying really, _really_ hard not to think about what would happen if ... that.)

So, essentially, everything is hanging on this paper.

 _Crowley,_ I need to sleep.

Simon is in the kitchen when I get home, making breakfast. He looks relieved when I come in, and after I drop my bag by the door we share a long embrace. He's soft, and warm, and he smells like home. I look at him after we let go; he looks tired too, and stressed. This is earlier than he usually wakes up, and it's been seeming recently like he hasn't been sleeping well. His semester is wrapping up, and he has a huge presentation on Friday, one that he's been agonising over for weeks, and working on for months. After this, the only thing standing between him and a university degree will be a couple of exams next week in classes that he's been passing without any extreme effort, so I'm confident he'll be able to finish the year without much difficulty.

He did have a Skype appointment with his therapist last week that went about fifty percent longer than scheduled, but I've been trying to convince myself that's a good thing. It means she's helping him, right? In any case, Jeri's good for him, and he's definitely needed her recently. I can see how well he's doing academically, but he's still tied up in knots about it.

"You doing all right?" I ask, touching his cheek, just trying to feel close to him, to feel his skin.

He nods too sharply. "Fine. You?"

"I'm okay." I pretend I didn't hear the dissonance between his tone and his words, and I also pretend I'm not giving him the same lie right back. "Almost done, right? After this paper I have a week before exams, and then I'll be done with the certificate."

Simon gives me a tight smile. "I'll be glad when your all-nighters are over."

There's a kind of squeezing in my chest, and I don't know what to say. Way back, four years ago when I was finishing at Watford without him, he told me he had trouble sleeping alone, that it was really tough not having me there in the same room. Probably it goes back to the beginning of that year too, when I was missing ... he said he didn't sleep well then either. We were both utter disasters for a while. He did eventually get used to sleeping alone, living with Bunce for three years, but I'm sure as soon as we moved in together he immediately grew accustomed to hearing me breathe next to him every night. I know I did.

I don't know what to say, so I give him a kiss -- he tastes like toothpaste -- and when we part he rubs his lip where my stubble scratched him. We go back about our business, him to the kitchen and me to the bedroom to lie down for an hour.

I barely wake up when he leaves, coming in to give me another kiss before he goes to class. When my alarm goes a bit later, I drag myself out of bed, shower quickly just to get the all-nighter grime off, drink a pint of cold blood, eat the last of the scones Simon made on the weekend, and head to class.

 

***

 

It's half three on Thursday morning when I submit my thesis through the course website, and it's all I can do not to collapse with relief right there in the library. It's _done,_ it's finally done, and a few hours early even. Except for two classes later today and one tomorrow, where we'll just be doing the last review before the reading break, I now have a week of my own time before exams. Plus, I've got like five hours to go home and sleep before I have to be back at school. I pack my things sloppily and say good-night to Casey, who has been going through all of this with me, and who is practically vibrating from all the coffee she's had and is about to submit her own essay. God, I've been seeing more of her recently than I have of Simon. She's a good friend, and I like her, but ... not _that_ much. It's been ridiculous this week.

I get home just before four, but something feels wrong in the flat, and it takes me a minute -- the shower is running. Why is Simon taking a shower in the middle of the night? He bathes before bed, around ten; he should be asleep right now. He should have been asleep _hours_ ago.

I drop my stuff and go to the bathroom door, knocking on it gently. "Simon?"

I wait for a moment; the shower continues, but there's no answer, and no sound of him moving.

I knock louder. "Simon, are you okay? It's me."

Still no answer. I taste the beginnings of bitter panic in the back of my throat.

"Simon? It's me, I'm coming in."

I have never been so glad that this door doesn't lock.

The bathroom isn't steamy like I expected, it's cold and damp. I pull back the shower curtain and he's standing there, halfway under the spray, halfway collapsed against the tile, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. He turns his head a little, and when he sees me he barely reacts, just blinks, slowly.

I'm stunned, frozen, speechless. What the _actual fuck_ is going on? "What are you _doing?_ "

His lips part, but no sound comes out, and he looks like he's about to cry. (Like he's about to cry again -- I think the wetness on his face is tears.)

Then the panic hits me fully, an avalanche of adrenalin and horrible clarity. I reach in and turn off the water, soaking my arm in the process, then grab his towel and his arm and pull him towards me, wrapping him in it and rubbing it on his body as best I can. He has goose flesh; I have no idea how long he was in there but he's cold, and I'm freezing, and I curse everything I can think of that I don't have any body heat of my own to warm him up with.

He stumbles a little over the edge of the tub, but I catch him. He stands still while I rub him down, arms clutched to his chest, and then I walk him into the bedroom and get him to lie down on my side of the bed, since it feels impossible to take him around to his side right now. He's still shivering, even bigger now, and when I pull the covers over his shoulders he starts crying, huge heaving gasps.

I kneel in front of him. "Simon, what's going on? What's happening?"

His eyes are squeezed shut and he shakes his head. He can't catch his breath to answer.

Fuck, _fuck,_ this is over my head, this is _so over my head_ . I have to call somebody, I have to get him help, but I don't know who. It's four o'clock in the _fucking_ morning, who can I call? His therapist wouldn't answer this time of day, and what could she do from Chicago anyway? Maybe I should call 999? Or Dr Wellbelove? But I don't think this is a medical thing. It's probably emotional, it's probably a panic attack. (It's the biggest fucking panic attack I've ever seen and I've never been so afraid.) Who else is there? _Who else??_ Who would come and take charge in this crisis in the hours before dawn? If only Penny were here, she'd know--

Penny. Not Penny, though, but her _father_. He's in London, and he's the closest thing to a father that Simon has. They looked after him for those six months, four years ago.

I stand up and dig my phone out of my pocket and my hands are shaking while I hit the contact to call his mobile.

It rings a few times, then goes to voicemail. Shit, _shit_. "Dr Bunce, it's Baz," I say, and I know I sound as fucked-up as I feel, I know I'm hyperventilating and my voice is shaking. "Um, Basil Pitch. Please call me right away, something's wrong with Simon, it's an emergency and I need your help, I don't know what to do. Please call me. Please."

I hang up. Should I try again? I do.

No answer this time either. I don't leave a message. I feel like I might throw up. Simon is still sobbing into my pillow.

What about the other Dr Bunce? She's up at Watford, would she come down? It's the only thing I can think of.

I swallow a fresh wave of nausea when hers goes to voicemail too. I leave the same message.

Do they have a land line, at their house? I feel like they do. Do I have the number?

Amazingly, miraculously, I do, listed under Penny's contact, which makes no sense because I've never called her there. But I have the number, and I call it, and this time Dr Bunce answers just when I'm certain he won't.

"Basil?"

Oh thank _magic_ , he got my voicemail. "Yes," I manage. "Please come down, please help."

"I'm coming, what's happened?"

"I don't know, I don't know. I just got home and found Simon in the shower. He's freaking out, completely freaking out, he can't talk, he's just -- he's just crying and I don't know what to _do_."

"Stay with him," Dr Bunce says, and his tone is authoritative and it's such a relief. "You stay right beside him. I'll be there as soon as I can."

I set my phone on the bedside table and look down at Simon. He's got his eyes squeezed shut still, and his face is red and wet, and he's still gasping for breath but he seems to have calmed down slightly. I climb into bed behind him, holding him as tightly as I can. My sleeve is still wet from the shower but I don't care.

It's an hour drive to our place in Clerkenwell from Hounslow during the day. Dr Bunce makes it in twenty minutes.

He calls me when he arrives, and I go down to let him in; on the way up I tell him everything I know, which isn't much. "What are we going to do?" I sound like I'm begging.

"I was thinking I’d take you both home," Dr Bunce says. "I mean, if it’s okay with you.”

“Home?” I say, trying to wrap my head around his meaning.  “You mean … your house?”

“Yeah.”  He hesitates, pushes his glasses up his nose.  “I talked to Mitali on the way over. We reckon ... Simon really needs to be looked after right now, and we think him being here is … it isn't helping. If he’s had such a bad panic attack he probably needs a … a change of scenery.  To get past it.”

Oh shit, he’s right -- that makes sense. “Oh.  Yeah.  And … I’ve got class today, I guess he probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Dr Bunce furrows his brow, and the resemblance to Penelope would be uncanny if I didn’t know they were related.  “You -- what?”

“I have class,” I say again.  “Which I _really_ can't miss.”

He shakes his head.  “This is more important, Basil.  I’m sure you can miss one class.”

“Two classes.”  Shit, _shit,_ there’s so much I have to do.  “One in the morning, one after lunch.”  We’ve arrived at the bedroom, and I look down at Simon, who’s blinking blearily. I can't take care of him right now, my other responsibilities are too urgent. My heart aches but I don't have the energy to analyse it.  “No, I … I can’t miss class.  I can’t.  It’s the last before exams.”

Dr Bunce is right next to me -- he’s barely as tall as my nose, but his presence is steadying, he’s solid.  I’m so fucking glad he’s here.  “If you’re sure,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”  I nod before I can convince myself otherwise.  “I’m sure.”

“At least come with us,” he says.  “Stay with him as long as you can -- he needs you.  You can take the Tube back, right?”

God, it’s so tempting.  I’m worried, though, that if I go, I won’t be able to leave.  But he’s right, Simon does probably need me right now.  I should be with him while I can.  “Okay,” I say.  “Yeah, I’ll come.”

Together we help Simon into his pyjamas and a dressing gown; he had dozed off, and he's conscious now, but moving slowly, not helping. Dr Bunce suggests I bring his phone, and I find it in the pocket of his jeans that are lying in a corner in the bedroom, stick it in the pocket of his robe.  Dr Bunce's car is illegally parked down on the street, and we all climb in and set off.

Simon falls asleep again in the car. I don't.  I’m still kind of trying not to vomit, even though there’s nothing in my stomach.

The sky is light by the time we get where we're going, and Simon wakes up when the car stops.

"Simon," I say, as gently as I can. "We're here. You're going to stay with Dr Bunce for a bit."

He blinks his eyes open, looks at me, but his expression is blank, like he doesn't recognize me, and my blood freezes in my veins. But then his face softens, he looks like Simon again, and he grips my hand so tight it feels like my finger bones are going to crumble into dust. I wrap him in my arms and I'm so relieved I let out an involuntary gasping sob. He doesn't move his arms, but he does lean into me, and I can feel him heave a shaky sigh.

Then Dr Bunce opens the door, and helps Simon out -- he's actually moving under his own power. Still has to be led, but he's standing and walking. We take him inside, bundle him on the couch under a mess of mismatched blankets.  He dozes off again immediately.

It's five now. I have class at nine, and it takes an hour on the Tube to get home from here. And I need, I _need_ to get some sleep.  I have to go home, but … _Simon._

Dr Bunce seems to sense that I’m trying to figure things while I stand in front of the couch, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets awkwardly.  “Er … what time is it you have class, Basil?”

“What? Oh. Nine.”

“You sure you have to go?  You couldn’t miss it for something as important as this?”

I shake my head and I feel like I want to cry.  “No.  I can’t.”

He sighs.  “So you’d have to leave here ... what, about seven-thirty?”

I rub my face with both hands, trying to get some circulation to help me think.  “I … no, I have to stop at home first, get my things, shower.  I can’t go like this.”

He nods.  “So, more like six-thirty to have enough time?”

I sigh.  “I guess?”

“You’ve got some time then,” he says.  “Do you want to lie down for a bit?  You look a fright.  Have you been up all night?”

“Yeah.  Two nights in a row.”

“Merlin,” he breathes.  “Stay here a bit, please?  You can kip on the couch.”

I shake my head.  “I don’t have my phone.  I can’t set an alarm.”

“I’ll wake you up in an hour.  You _have to_ get some sleep, Basil.”

I can’t argue with that.  Simon stirs a little when I curl up next to him in yet another blanket, and I pass out with my cheek on his shoulder.

It feels like only moments later that Dr Bunce is shaking my shoulder, telling me it’s a quarter past six.  Simon blinks partly awake while I’m extracting myself from the couch.

I can't stay. I wish like hell that I could.  Leaving him right now feels like the absolute worst thing I have ever done in my life. It feels like a betrayal of every promise I've ever made to him. I feel like I'd rather die than walk out that door. But I don't have a choice.

I kiss Simon on the cheek before I go, and when I pull back he's looking at me, and he looks how I feel, so I kiss him again, on the corner of his mouth. "I love you," I whisper, cradling his face in my hands, brushing a fresh fall of tears away with my thumbs. "I have to go to school but I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise. Dr Bunce will take care of you until then."

He just looks at me, silently begging, still crying.  I kiss him one more time, on the mole above his eyebrow.

I leave without looking back. I can't bear it.

Luckily my wallet and keys are still in my pockets, so even though I didn't bring anything else with me, I still have my Oyster card, and I'll be able to get into the building without breaking anything. I walk to the Tube station and try not to fall asleep on the train. I feel like crying, I want to, but ... I can't. The tears aren't there. I wish I could cry, could feel ... something.  I’m surrounded by commuters but I feel like the only person in the world.

When I finally make it home I'm too tired to even contemplate anything but snatching a few more minutes of sleep.  Now that I’m here, taking a shower seems impossible.  All I can do is strip off my jeans and collapse into bed.

My pillow smells like Simon.


	9. Act 3, scene ii

_-Baz-_

I hit snooze too many times. By the time I make it upright I'm nearly late, so I only have time to put on yesterday's clothes and run a comb through my hair before I dash out the door.

The day is a blur. I'm so tired, and so thirsty, and I just feel empty. I go to class, and at the end I have no idea what happened, but my notebook is full of writing and I have a couple of checkbox tasks in my planner so I must have paid attention at some point. I force myself to focus for a moment and realize that I already knew about both of those tasks and when they were due, but I guess it's good I wrote them down. It's the end of term so everything is ten times more vital than it was before, and I wrote "40% of final mark" next to one of the tasks. Which is too terrifying to contemplate; I snap my planner shut and stuff it in my bag.

I don't eat on my lunch break, but I do return a missed call from Dr Bunce. He tells me that Simon's slept and he's seeming more himself, and that he's had a long session with his therapist and they're working on why he had such a serious event. Simon's not through the crisis yet, he shouldn't be alone, but he's ... okay. He's better. Slightly.

Then Simon gets on the phone but I don't know what to say, and neither does he. He asks if I'm going to come see him this afternoon, but the prospect of getting on the Tube and going out there and then coming all the way back before my class tomorrow ... it just feels insurmountable. I'm so tired, that even though seeing him is the only thing in the world I want ... I just can't. I don't have it in me. The state I'm in now I'll barely be able to get home, and it's only a twenty-minute walk. So I tell him I have an assignment due tomorrow (which is true, but it's already finished), and that I need to go to bed early (which is absolutely true), and he says he understands, and I feel like utter shit for lying to him. We make horrible small talk for a couple minutes more before he says he loves me, which breaks my heart, and I say it back, and we ring off.

I hide in the toilets and cry for fifteen minutes. Now that the tears have showed up I'm not sure how to stop them.

I drag myself home after my afternoon class. I can't face going to the library for my usual Thursday study group; I can barely keep my eyes open, much less think. Much less be in a room with functional human beings. I drop my bag in front of the couch in the living room, and leave my clothes in a pile on the bedroom floor, and I crawl into bed and pass out.

 

***

 

When I wake up, I'm disoriented, and so thirsty I feel like my stomach is devouring me and I can feel my fangs pressing on my lips, trying to get out of my mouth. My phone says it's just after midnight, and there's a huge list of notifications: five calls and two voicemails from Dr Bunce, six calls and five voicemails and more texts than I can count from Penny, two missed calendar reminders, and three texts from Casey, first wondering why I was late for our regular Thursday afternoon revision meetup, and then why I never came, and then whether I was okay. I think I left my phone on silent after class. I don't have it in me to answer, any of it, so I just leave the phone on the bedside table. It's not plugged in, and the battery is low. It doesn't matter.

I have to piss really, _really_ urgently, but I'm so tired I have to hang onto the towel bar to steady myself until I'm done.

I shuffle into the kitchen in my underwear and get a pint of blood out of the fridge, then sit down at the table and drink without even trying to warm it up. It's cold and thick and it tastes horrid, and I get half of it down before I'm too disgusted to have more. I'm less thirsty now, but I still feel empty, empty, empty. My cheeks are wet, and I don't know why I'm crying. Eventually I put my head down on the table and pass out again.

 

***

 

I awake to my entire body aching, my forehead sinus sore where my face was pressed into the table. The sun is just rising, and I get up stiffly, put the lid on the jar and put it back in the refrigerator, then go back into the bedroom and bury myself under the covers.

 

***

 

The light is different when I wake up again, it seems like mid-afternoon, and there's a loud noise out in the sitting room and then  _my father_ bursts into the bedroom looking panicked and disheveled; his wand is out and I can feel his magic smouldering and it's an odd sensation, it's been a while since I felt anyone else's magic. He stops short when he sees me and gasps, a raw, desperate sound I’ve never heard from him before. "Basilton!"

I blink at him stupidly. "What are you doing here?" My voice is a hoarse whisper. I feel like shit, like actual literal death.

He's at my side in a moment, perching on the edge of the bed, by my knees, and he grips my shoulder so hard it actually hurts. " _Merlin_ , Basilton! Your phone is going straight to voicemail, what's going on?"

I'm so dizzy and confused, I can barely make sense of his words. ( _Transient aphasia_ , the academic part of my brain supplies, unhelpfully.) "I've been ... sleeping."

"You weren't in class this morning," my father says; he sounds a bit calmer now than he did a moment ago. "They called Simon's phone, your emergency contact, and Dr Bunce answered, and he couldn't get you either so he called me."

_Simon_. "I think my battery died."

He picks up my phone off the bedside table, and it won't turn on; he finds the charger lying on the floor by the outlet, plugs it in, then sits down again, right next to me, close enough that I can't really look at him. I'm glad, because I know he's going to ask, and I can't bear to see his face when he does. "Basilton … what’s going on here?  What _happened_?"

I start to cry. It's all I can do, I'm empty and I don't have any words and I don't know how to stop it from happening. My father rubs my back like I'm a little child, and it's comforting, and I sob even harder.

After a while I run out of emotion completely, and the crying stops. My father gets up, then comes back a moment later with a glass of water. "Sit up," he says, and I do, slowly, and he hands me the glass. I drink it, because I have to, and he takes it back to the kitchen, and then I hear him on the phone with Dr Bunce.

As I'm sitting here, the duvet and sheets knotted up around me, it occurs to me that maybe I should be a little embarrassed. I'm in a horrendously unmade bed, in my boxer briefs and and a t-shirt and socks, and I smell awful and I haven't shaved in several days and I don't even know how terrible my hair looks. I know I should feel embarrassed -- I should feel _something_ , probably -- but I don't. I don't feel anything except exhausted and hollow. I stare at my hands in my lap, trying not to listen to the conversation in the other room. It doesn't last long.

Father comes back, stands in the doorway. He seems uncertain what to do. I'm not any help either. "Martin says Simon's doing better," he says, and my face crumples, I feel like I might cry again, but I've run out so nothing else happens.

There's a beat of silence, and then I hear him walking over to the bed again.  He seems uncertain for a moment, then sits gingerly in front of me. "Basilton ... you … you're really not okay, are you?"

My eyes are still squeezed shut. I shake my head. "No," I whisper, "I'm not."

He hesitates.  (He never hesitates.)  "Do you feel responsible for what happened to Simon?"

There's a lead weight in my belly, and I can't breathe.

Father's hand is on my shoulder, holding me up while I’m trying to crumble. "Basil, _Basil_ , you're not, you're not responsible. It didn't happen because of you."

"I should have been here," I gasp, and I feel an ocean of darkness bubbling up inside me, choking me, drowning me. "He wasn't well, he wasn't sleeping right. He never does when I'm not here. I knew but I didn't come home. I thought he'd be okay."

"It's not your fault," my father repeats. "It's not your job to be his caretaker."

I look up at him, feeling deeply, down to my bones, how incredibly wrong he is. "What?"

He looks … soft.  It’s weird.  "It's not up to you to take care of him."

"What? No, of course it is, of _course_ it is."

"Basilton, it's _not_."

"It is, it _is,_ " I insist, and I can hear my voice breaking. "I'm his boyfriend, his partner, his -- his _fiancé_. We live together, we take care of each other. We _promised_."

"That doesn't make you responsible," my father says, gently, and he moves closer and puts his arm around my shoulders. "You've done the best you can. You're not his therapist."

"I'm not good enough," I murmur. "I did the best I could and it wasn't good enough, I couldn't stop it happening."

"You _are_ good enough."

"I'm not, I'm _not!_  If I was, he'd be here right now."

"But he's all right, you got him help, and he's all right. He's better enough that he's worried about _you_."

A horrible feeling shoots through my gut, and I press my face into my father's shoulder; after a minute I identify this new sensation as self-loathing, which is not so much a new thing, but it is one I haven't felt in a while. (I haven't felt much of any emotion at all in quite a while, I realize. It's been days, weeks even, of merely existing, pushing through. Just ... tiredness. Emptiness. Exhausting fear. Passing instances of vague sadness. Occasional shallow relief.)

One of my father's hands is stroking my hair, and I don't really know what to make of that.

After a while I sit up; I'm starting to ache, I need to move, but I don't want to.  Father lets go of me slowly.  (This physical contact thing he’s doing is really, deeply weird, and I have no idea what it’s about.)

"Do you want to see Simon?" he asks.

I nod. I do want to see Simon; _god_ do I want to see Simon. "Does he want to see me?"

"Of course he does, he hasn't seen you in a day and a half."

_That doesn’t mean he wants to see me._ "Does he know? That I--?" I can't say it, I can't admit how bad it is.

"He knows you didn't go to class this morning, and that we couldn't get a hold of you. And I told him that I'm here with you and that you're in one piece."

I don't really know what to say or to feel about that. I sort of groan, just to react somehow.

"You should have a shower," my father says. "Clean up, get dressed. I'll make you something to eat and then we'll go see Simon at the Bunces'."

I should be surprised that he's actually going to willingly and physically go to the Bunces' house, but I can't muster the feeling. He stands, and steadies me as I get to my feet. I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower, and I can hear him standing on the other side of the door for a minute before he walks into the kitchen. I know he's going to get out some blood and make me drink it before we go. God knows I need it.

It's difficult to get into the shower. This is where I found Simon.

But the water is hot, and I suppose I'll feel better when I'm clean. I hope. Maybe.


	10. Act 3, scene iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therapy jargon: CBT = [cognitive behavioral therapy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_behavioral_therapy)

_-Simon-_

I'm watching out the front window, and when the Jag pulls up I dash outside, and throw myself at Baz as soon as he steps out the passenger side of the car. He looks horrible, but not as bad as I’d feared. (Honestly ... I was afraid he was dead. Like, _actually_ dead. Jeri talked to me about why that was irrational, but it was more possible than she was going to admit, and I am _beyond relieved_ to be wrong.) He's freshly showered -- his hair's still damp, combed back on his head -- and his clothes are clean, but he hasn't shaved in a few days, and he’s got a stubble beard that scratches the side of my face when we embrace.

He holds me tightly, too tightly, but I don't care. I very nearly had another freakout today when I heard something was wrong with him, but although it was a really intense hour, I got through it without going full-on meltdown again, which I'm proud of. I found out later that Dr Bunce had been worrying about him for hours before he told me, that I only heard when Baz's dad was already in central London on his way to our flat, and of course it was only twenty minutes later when he called again to say he was there with Baz.  I’m a bit angry that they kept it from me, but I’m also glad they spared me most of that panic.

But now he's _here_ and I'm so fucking relieved I don't even know what to do except squeeze him back. I wish I'd paid more attention to his dark moods, that I hadn't dismissed Penny's concerns, that I'd realized that him seeming depressed at all was a huge fucking red flag because he's the master of conceal-don't-feel, even with me. I should have _known--_

I stop myself -- I'm getting super fucking worked up again, I feel that suffocating squeezing building in my chest and I hold Baz tighter to compensate while I try to focus on breathing and letting go of the tension.  I’ve been working on this with Jeri, and trying not to dwell on the causality of this gigantic mess that crashed down on us over the past two days.

It's so easy to blame myself for Baz's breakdown.   _Really_ easy. Like, involuntary easy.  And I know he's already blaming himself for mine, because that’s how he is. Dr Bunce must have known, because he made me call Jeri again as soon as I heard that Baz was in trouble, so she got in and interrupted the cycle of blame before I could get too deeply entrenched on my own. And that was good, it definitely helped, though it didn’t actually _stop_ me feeling like this was my fault.

At least now I can hear her talking to me when I start losing it, reminding me what to do to dial back the anxiety when it starts threatening to overwhelm me again. I still _have_ the anxiety, but I'm sort-of-okay right now, which is a huge improvement on yesterday, and infinitely better than the day before.

(Jesus, I barely remember Wednesday -- it was basically a haze of feeling like I was about to go off and sheer blinding panic. Who knew that hot, crawling tingle in my hands and face could be my sympathetic nervous system and not my magic coming back to destroy us all? Well, I did, but that wasn't enough to stop me believing it was The End Of The World.)

I’m starting to spin out of control; I make an effort to bring my focus back to Baz again -- he’s tall and solid and strong and he’s _here,_ he came back like I knew he would (even if I wouldn’t believe myself).  He’s here in my arms and I wish I could absorb him right into myself so we never have to be apart again, so that he’ll never stop knowing how much I love him.

Baz finally relaxes his grip on my back and shoulders. "I'm so sorry," he whispers.

I pull back, put my hands on his cheeks, shake my head. His face is wet with tears and it’s killing me.  (He’s here, we’re together, things will be okay.   _Things will be okay._ ) "I love you," I say, because I need to be saying it to him every minute of my life. "Don't be sorry, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh, Simon," he breathes, and I'm not sure what he means, but he looks miserable, and my heart breaks again.

I try to smile.  “You called me Simon.”

He makes a face that looks like it started as an attempt at smiling but just comes out a grimace.  “D’you prefer Chosen One?”

“Only when you’re the one choosing.”  This is a silly conversation, and one that we have pretty regularly, when we’re feeling romantic.  It never gets old and it always makes me feel warm inside and I really need that right now.

Baz doesn’t say anything.  He leans his forehead against mine, and we breathe together for a minute while I try to let go of this unpleasant feeling that just bubbled up in my throat.  Usually I can get him to at least smile with the “Chosen One” schtick, but ... he played along, he gave it a shot.  I can’t fault him for that.  I slide my fingers through his hair, and we both sigh.

He lifts his head when his father clears his throat delicately.  He and Dr Bunce are standing by the front door, pretending not to watch us.  I take Baz by the hand and lead him inside, and we sit on the couch while I fill him in on the last couple of days.

When he found me two nights ago I'd been in the shower for hours, I think, but my memories are foggy. I remember getting in, like usual, but then I couldn't make myself get out, because that would mean I had to go to bed, which would mean I had to get up in the morning, which would mean I had to go to school and prepare to give my presentation, and I was so terrified, so overwhelmed -- not just by that, by _everything,_ by graduating and life and responsibility -- that I couldn't get out of the shower. I couldn't make my legs work, and my chest was so tight I felt like I was suffocating, plus the feeling of sparks in my skin like my magic used to do. So I stood there and I couldn't do anything but just give in to the panic and I guess I blacked out a little.

I have a vague memory of when Baz came home, and got me into bed somehow, and I remember Dr Bunce arriving and them putting me in the car. I think I fell asleep on the drive; I was so exhausted by that point I didn't know which way was up. And then I was here at the Bunces', but Baz had to leave because he had school, and when he left it was like the dam broke, and I laid on the couch and cried until I was completely dried out. I felt like he was never going to come back. I felt like the world was ending and I was supposed to stop it. I felt like I was going to die and he wasn't there and _that's not how it's supposed to happen_. (I don't tell him this part. He doesn't need to know, not right now.)

Talking to him yesterday afternoon was the one high point in all of this, though it was soured by the fact that he couldn't (wouldn’t) come and see me. It was really hard not to feel that as a rejection, and I got the sense at the time that he was making excuses. I still don't know what to make of it, even though I'm pretty sure it was because he’s been so depressed. It always seems to exhaust him, when he’s down like this, makes everything a huge undertaking.  And this time was darker and deeper than anything I’ve seen before, and it lasted longer -- I’m pretty sure it’s been weeks since he last seemed like himself, seemed actually relaxed and happy. (I wish he would just talk to Jeri about this, get an actual diagnosis of depression and admit it’s a legitimate illness that needs treatment.  I’m so _sick_ of it being this open secret with me and his parents that nobody ever talks about.  Like it’s something that’ll get better on its own.  It won’t, and it’s just hurting him, us acting like it will.)

But I don't tell him any of this right now either -- we'll have time to talk about his issues later, and right now we’re both pretty fucked up still, so it's not a good time.

In between all of that with Baz I've had several sessions with Jeri, tried to sleep, and did a bunch of therapy homework (endless CBT worksheets). Now I finally feel like I'm coming out the other side of this anxiety meltdown, sort of feeling like myself again. Unfortunately ... I was supposed to do my comp sci capstone project presentation today. Becca called me this morning, when it was a quarter to and I wasn't there. I couldn't answer the phone, because as soon as I saw her name I remembered and I panicked all over again.

Martin picked it up for me, told her that I was ill and wasn't going to be there. He also gave her his personal number and got a call from Professor Ginsburg later, explained the same thing to her and that I'd reschedule as soon as I was better.  Which sounds absolutely fucking horrible and is terrifying and I don’t want to do it at all.

The anxiety is getting to me again, while I'm telling Baz this part, reliving everything I went through. I’m trying to keep some emotional distance like we talked about in therapy, but it’s fucking _hard._ But Baz is here, which makes it a little better, and he holds my hand while I get the whole story out. It's been a long time since I practiced these breathing exercises last, but I'm getting a lot of mileage out of them this week.

I don't tell him that I _still_ haven't done anything about the the job interview requests in my email, and it's been literal months now. I haven't told him how fucking petrified I am about all of that life-after-university stuff; after that night with my classmates we never talked about it. Jeri knows, obviously -- I told her when I talked to her last week, and we talked about it a little bit yesterday too. Dr Bunce knows now, as well. But I'm not ready to tell Baz yet, that I've been hiding all of this. Jeri says I should tell him, I _need_ to tell him, that he'll support me. And I know he will, intellectually. But I'm still terrified that he won't. I can only deal with so much at once, and this didn't make the cut, so I'm doing the thing I'm supposed to not do and putting it on a list to be ignored for now.

He’s been listening quietly the whole time I’m talking, waiting patiently through the bits when I had to stop to pull myself together.  And when I stop talking he leans into me, wraps his arms around me, hides his face in my shoulder.  I run a hand through his hair.  “Okay, Baz?”

He sighs, and doesn’t pick his head up.  “Are _you_ okay?”

I scoot down so this becomes a more equal hug, less of him leaning on me and more of a mutual cuddle.  He’s still got his face in my shoulder but at least I can hug him back, feel him pressed against me.  I brush a kiss to the side of his neck.  “I’m all right now you’re here.”

He shudders a little bit; I think he’s crying.  (I wonder if he’s been trying not to, with me watching.)  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been there.”  Yeah, he’s definitely crying.

I squeeze him.  “It’s all right.”

He picks his head up at that, and he looks a fright; everything he was hiding is on his face now.  “Simon, how can you _say_ that?  It’s absolutely _not_ all right!”

“Will you shut up and listen to me!”  I put my hands on his cheeks.  “I’m okay now.  I am!”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, tightens his fingers in my shirt.  “I just … I shouldn’t have left you alone at night.  I should have _been there_ for you.”

“It’s not the end of the world.  I can handle being alone at night.”

“Simon.”  He gives a weary sigh.  “I know you still have the nightmares.”

“Yeah, and?”  Ugh, shit, I shouldn’t try to fake my way out of this.  I _do_ still have the nightmares.  Every recurring nightmare I’ve ever had is still with me, even if I have them less frequently now, and some of them have changed a bit.  “I mean….”

Baz leans his head on my shoulder again, settles his weight against me.  It’s comforting, even though I think he’s doing this to hide his face again.  “I know it helps you when I’m there.”

“Yeah.”  I shouldn’t argue with him about that, it’s not good for either of us.  “It helps me to know that I didn’t actually go off and kill you.”

“As if I’d let you.”

I almost chuckle at that, but there’s a morbid edge to his tone that makes it less funny.  “I did okay when I was living with Penny.  I got used to sleeping alone.”

“I didn’t,” he murmurs.  “I slept next to you for seven years of torture, and then when I finally _wanted_ to be with you, we were apart.”

I nod, and I know he can’t see it, but maybe he can feel it.  “The first night we spent together in London … it felt ….”  I pause; this is really corny but I can’t think of a better way to say it.  “It felt like I was finally home.”

“Yeah.  Me too.”

I’m suddenly overcome with emotion, and I wrap up in him as tightly as I can.  He starts trembling again, weeping silently into my shoulder.  We stay that way for quite a while, until my phone buzzes in my pocket.  It must be Penny; she’s been texting me pretty much constantly for two days, and I realise now would be a good time to call her.

Baz has his earbuds mashed in his jeans pocket, and we share them while we call Penny. She's been losing her shit since she first heard about all of this, though she has calmed down considerably since I talked to her this time yesterday. After we get the “how are you” small talk out of the way she launches into a conversation about the class she just started, something about epistemology, which ... I don't even really know what that is, but she makes it sound interesting.  And she’s doing quite a good job of carrying the topic mostly by herself.

Baz curls up in an angular ball at my side, and I think he’s still crying. He's been doing that on and off since he let himself start, alternating between blankness and crying jags. I'm trying to be chill about it, to not let it upset me, but it's hard because it's obvious how badly he's hurting and I want to make it stop but I _can't_.

Penny keeps talking to both of us like he didn’t withdraw from the conversation right after he said hello, and I don't know if that's helping him or not. I don't really know what's going on with him right now, exactly, or how to help, but I follow Penny's lead and try to act like he's not freaking out. Try to pay attention to a conversation about philosophy.

After a while he unfolds a little, and he's never taken the earbud out, he's been listening to everything the whole time. Then he responds to something Penny says, and his face still looks grim, and his tone is flat, but he's speaking, picking her up on a point about ... actually I really don't know, I was barely following the conversation before he joined in. And by now he doesn't even really look like he's been crying, the gorgeous tosser. Though maybe it's because he's low on blood, and he's been wiping his face on my shoulder.

Malcolm and Martin have been talking quietly in the kitchen while we've been on the phone with Penny, and they come out together when we hang up.

"Simon, do you feel up to going home?" Martin asks.

I feel a spike of panic in my belly, but Baz lays his hand on my knee, and I take a few slow breaths to dissipate the fear. "Will you be there?" I ask him.

He nods. "I will. I'll stay with you, I promise."

"I'm going to stay with you for a bit, as well," Malcolm says, and Baz's face twists into the most confused expression I've ever seen on him.

"You ..." He blinks several times. " _What?_ "

"I'm going to stay at your flat with both of you for a little bit," he repeats, perfectly smooth. "Overnight, probably. Maybe two nights. You shouldn't be alone right now, but you both need to be at home, I’m sure." Martin nods his agreement.

Baz turns his confused expression to me. "We haven't got room," he protests.

Malcolm shrugs, elegantly. "I don't need much space, I'll sleep on your sofa. But you both need to go home, and you need someone to look after you for a bit. I'm family, and I'm here, and I can, so it might as well be me."

I stare at him for a moment, then at Baz, whose mouth is actually hanging slightly open (probably for the first time in his life) while he stares back at me.  This is … completely crazy.  We couldn’t-- could we?

But, I mean … is it that crazy, really?  As much as I'm not exactly eager to have Baz's dad crashing on my couch, I know that Baz really isn't in a state to take care of me, nor I him, and we both need taking care of right now. We need somebody else to be responsible. (And ... did Malcolm call me _family_ ? I mean, I guess I _will_ be, when I marry Baz, but -- wow okay this is for another time. It's going on the list.)

“I, uh,” I attempt.  Malcolm has been looking at Baz, but when I start to stammer he turns his intense gaze on me.  “I mean, I guess … I suppose that could work.”

Baz lowers his eyebrows and mouths, _Really?_

And I must be feeling contrary, because I say, “Yeah, why not?” with a lot more confidence than I actually have.

He gives me a look that sets my nerves jangling, but I take his hand and draw a deep breath.  “I think it’s a good idea,” I say softly, and his expression shifts, just enough.

Baz looks from me to his dad, who’s still watching him expectantly.  “Yeah, okay,” he says.  He sounds resigned, and I’m trying not to be upset that he’s not enthusiastic.  (I can’t expect him to be enthusiastic about this.)  “I suppose you’re all probably right.”

I can’t help but breathe a relieved sigh, and this all suddenly feels like a much better idea than it did even a minute ago.  We’ll be together, and we won’t be alone, and for a couple days we’ll be able to just … _be._ I give Baz’s hand another squeeze, and he favours me with a shadow of a smile.

We gather up the couple of things they brought for me; I'm wearing some of Pacey's old clothes right now, but it's not like he needs them immediately, and I'll bring them back some other time. I'm trying to ignore the pull in the centre of my chest that wants me to believe that leaving the Bunces' is a huge mistake; I _do_ want to go home. I want to be at home with Baz and for everything to be okay again.

Baz and I sit in the back seat of his father's Jaguar for the ride back into the city. It's a crap backseat, obviously an afterthought by the car-makers, and we're crammed together but it feels good to be close to him. His dad makes him call Daphne, to let her know we're okay, because apparently Baz owes that to her or something.  The conversation is draining. Earlier I'd wished that it was her who came down, instead of Baz's dad, but now I'm glad it happened this way -- he's calm and steady, whereas she's freaking out a little, and we've got plenty of that ourselves. I get the feeling that talking to her made Baz feel even more shit about himself, and I bite my tongue to stop from telling Mr Grimm he should have made that call himself.

After Baz hangs up, Malcolm suggests we place a takeaway order for dinner, since we're getting close to home now. Baz pulls up the app on his phone, and after he stares at it blankly for five minutes I take it from him and order too much Szechuan food.

When I’m done I give the phone back, and he tucks it in his jeans pocket.  I wrap my arm around his shoulders and hold him close, and he sags against me.  It kills me that this all I can do for him right now, and it’s not nearly enough, but … it’ll have to do.


	11. Act 3, scene iv

_-Malcolm-_

When we get back to the boys' flat, Simon changes quickly into his own clothes, and then I turn on the television and sit them both on the couch. _Top Gear_ is on, which Basilton has always liked, so I'm hoping it'll hold his attention enough to keep him from going back to that dark place.

The food arrives a short while later, and they eat it sitting on the couch still, picking at their noodles and bits of chicken and veg directly from the paper containers. They swap a couple of times, when Simon suggests it, and Basil seems to just be going through the motions. He doesn't eat much, and I resist the urge to mention it.  (I do find myself rather impressed by their dexterity with the chopsticks -- I don’t know how to use them, I’ve got a fork for my dinner. I certainly wasn’t the one to teach Basil.  He must have learned on his own at some point.)

Simon eats enthusiastically like he usually does, which I'm relieved to see; Martin said that yesterday he wouldn't touch anything until after he'd spoken to Basil in the early afternoon, and didn't eat a proper meal at all while he was there. When they're finished with their Chinese food I put the leftovers into one container and stash it in their refrigerator, which is looking woefully empty. Maybe I should have us all go to Waitrose tomorrow. I wonder if Simon's well enough to plan and cook for them.

I brought some work with me, since I had it in the car when I came down, and I get it out on the table. Not that I'll be able to focus on it, but I can pretend. Keep up appearances.

I think I unsettled Basilton earlier this afternoon, when I first got here -- I was panicking, and I let my guard down, allowed myself to do things I normally wouldn't. I didn't know how to handle it. It wasn’t the worst predicament Basilton's ever been in, but I didn't know that when I got the call he'd not turned up to class, plus Martin said he'd looked quite rough two days ago. So when I found him, at home, _alive_... he felt like my little boy again, even though he's twenty-three years old and as independent as can be.

It's been so many years since I hugged him, held him, tried to comfort him ... I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sure he didn't know what I was doing, either. This is probably going to be a thing we don't talk about. I may have to tell Daphne, though.

The boys are still watching BBC Two; _QI_ is on now. They aren't laughing at the jokes, or even really smiling, but they're holding each other, and at least they don't look miserable. Well, Simon doesn't look miserable.

Basilton ....

My son has been through hell.

He was young enough when his mother died that he wasn't too badly affected by it (except for the ... _physical_ changes), and his adolescence went well. Well enough, considering … well, everything. (I try not to dwell on what I could have done differently -- done _better_ \-- for him, when he was just becoming a young man. I do my best to make up for it now.) But the year he turned nineteen, everything went south on him, dragging up those old issues and combining with new ones, and he's always refused to get help with it, to even get a formal diagnosis that he actually has a problem. It's as though he doesn't think that being kept in a coffin by numpties for _forty days_ was traumatic. He acts like it's a normal thing that he's just expected to live with, just another burden for him to shoulder and carry on.

I've known for a long time that he struggles with depression. It started well before his kidnapping, years before, when he was about thirteen or fourteen. I don't think he even realized what it was, at the time, and I wasn't too concerned because he was still handling himself well, he was still doing brilliantly in school, and with his music and football. I think that was around the same time he realized he was gay, too, which I'm sure had something to do with it. Plus, he was a young teen. That's a difficult age for anyone, even without his particular problems.

But his depression got so much worse after he spent six weeks in the dark. I'd never been so afraid for him as I was during that fortnight immediately following when he barely left his room. A large part of that was physical, of course, but I was afraid that the experience had broken him, that my son would be gone. He wasn't, thank magic; he came back, but he's never been quite the same. His outlook is grimmer now, he's sad a lot, even harder on himself than he was before.

Simon Snow has helped immensely. There was a lot of tension between Basilton and me about him, at first; I had my own ideas about what Basilton's life ought to be, and his relationship with Simon was not a part of that. But I've done a lot of thinking, soul-searching, in the years since then, with Daphne's help. I've come around to a more realistic perspective on things. It's not been easy, always, but I accept now that it doesn't matter what I think about them being together. It's not up to me.

The simple fact of it is, Basilton is happier with Simon at his side. They adore one another, they're _good_ together. And when they called me last month to say that they’re going to get married, of course I was surprised at first (though in retrospect perhaps I should have seen it coming -- Fiona did), but I really am deeply happy that Basilton has found the love of his life.

And I do believe that Simon is the love of his life. I think the Crucible was on to something when it cast them together when they were eleven years old. It's been known to do that, sometimes: a few times in a generation it will pair up people who are there for each other for the rest of their lives. Rarely as lovers, I’m sure, but there have been plenty of legendary friendships throughout the history of Watford that started that way. The enormous significance of Basilton and Simon's partnership was obvious from the very beginning: the last son of the House of Pitch, and the Chosen One, the Mage's Heir. It was going to end in a conflagration no matter what, and I'm glad beyond measure that it's one where they live, where they're happy. Where they're _in love._

I had hoped that their engagement would help Basilton's depression.

And I think it did, a bit. At first. But there's so much going on in his life, and Simon still has his own serious problems, never more evident than these last few days. One happy announcement, one joyful life change, isn't going to suddenly cure years of untreated mental illness, of off-kilter brain chemistry. He needs professional help and I wish I could make him get it.

Basilton sighs deeply, and Simon rubs his shoulder. They're both still staring at the television. Basil's eyes are puffy and wet; he's been crying. I don't know if he realizes it.

It’s starting to get late, and I realise I should ring Daphne to check in, and to say goodnight to the girls.  I’m sure they’re wondering why I wasn’t home for dinner, and I don’t know how much their mother has explained to them.  Especially Theodosia -- how do you tell a five-year-old that her brother is depressed and needed help?  He’s always been a grown-up to her, and for Father to have to run off to help must seem strange.  Bryony and Cecily are old enough and bright enough to understand, I think, if it’s explained well.  And Mordelia is up at Watford for a couple weeks more, but I think she already knows that her brother struggles with dark moods.  It’s a bit of a shock to realise she may not even be surprised that it came to this.

I call the land line, and Vera answers.  It turns out that my timing is impeccable and Daphne is just finishing reading to Thea, so I say goodnight to her first and then Daphne takes me to the twins.  They don’t ask me why I’m not there, which makes me think their mother has already told them.

After a minute of shuffling noises she’s on her own.  “Hello, darling.”

“Hello, Daphne, how’s the evening been?”

“Oh, all right.”  She sighs.  “Everything’s a bit weird because you’re not home, but we’ll be fine.  How’s Basil?”

I glance over at him; they’re not looking at me.  I lower my voice so I don’t disturb whatever they’re watching now.  “Better, I think.  He and Simon are together again, which helps.”

“I’m sure it does.  So you’re staying there tonight?”

“Yes.  They need someone to take responsibility for a bit.  I may stay tomorrow night too, depending on how things are in the morning.”

“Do you think it’s really that bad?”

“Hard to say.  He was in an awfully bad place, I don’t know how he’ll rebound.”

“Merlin,” she groans.  “I can’t believe we didn’t know how bad it was.”

“I know.”

“Is it that we weren’t paying attention?  We knew he’s been depressed before, why didn’t we see it this time?”

I lean my elbow on the table and rub my forehead.  “I don’t know, Daphne.  I wish we had, I wish we’d at least been able to see that _something_ was really wrong this time.”

“I don’t even really understand how we could have missed it, if it was this bad.”

“He’s been hiding,” I say.  “And working quite hard at it.”

“Has he?”

“I don’t think even Simon knew how bad it was.  And we haven’t been talking to him very much.  It’s been easy for him to keep it to himself.”

“I wonder if he was in denial about it, too.”

“Could be.  I don’t know.”

She sighs.  “In any case, us blaming ourselves isn’t helping anything.  How are you doing?”

I feel like we oughtn’t change the subject; Basilton’s wellbeing is our paramount concern.  But I do see that us continuing to talk about him isn’t going to get us anywhere.  “I’m all right.  We got Chinese takeaway for dinner.”

“Was it good?”

“Fairly.  Apparently they both like it quite spicy, though.”

She giggles.  “Did Basil order it too hot for you?”

“Simon ordered it.  But yes.  What did you have?”

“Chicken and rice soup.  I set some of the leftover aside for you.”

“Thank you.”  I can’t help smiling a little; it’s one of my favourites, and the kids love it too, so if I ever want any the next day it has to be specifically marked as mine.  “The girls doing all right?”

“Yes, I think so.  We’re all off our rhythm a bit, but since it’s Friday that doesn’t matter too much.  Thea’s a little confused why you didn’t come home, but it was good that you got to talk to her.  I think she was worried about you.”

“What about the twins?  Did they understand?”

“Well enough.  I told the girls that you had to go be with Basil for a bit because he was very sad, and Thea asked what he was sad about.  I didn’t really know how to answer that, but the twins didn’t press me.  I think they’re willing to accept that he’s sometimes sad for no reason.  Cecily did ask if he’s going to be okay.”

“What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?  Of course he’ll be okay.  I could hardly tell them that we’re afraid he’s suicidal.”

“I don’t think he is, though,” I say, sneaking a glance towards him.  “It’s been bad, but it’s not that bad.”

“You think so?”

“I do, yes.”  I lower my voice again, hoping that the boys won’t hear me talking about them.  “He’s only hurt himself through neglect, and now that Simon’s caught on, I don’t think that’ll be happening any more.”

“What a relief,” she breathes.  “Are you sure Simon’s up to it, though?”

“No.  But that’s why I’m here.”

“I’m glad you can take care of him.”

“I am too.”

She sighs.  “I have to go.  I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Text first?  We have dance lessons during the day.”

“All right.  Good night.”

“Good night.”

I take the phone down from my ear, and watch it until she disconnects a few seconds later.  I do miss her, and the girls; I wish we didn’t have to be apart tonight, but I couldn’t imagine not being here right now.

The boys go to bed a short while later. I have a fleeting desire to try to be a part of that, to go and tuck Basilton in. He's my son, I want to take care of him ... but Simon is my future son-in-law, and I've never been that sort of father. So I don't. They have their own bedtime routine, and they go through it while I sit at their table with my work and pretend I'm not paying attention. I hear them talking to each other softly in the bedroom -- the door isn't fully shut -- and Simon comes out a minute later with blankets, which he sets on the couch.

"Sorry we haven't got a Li-lo or anything," he says awkwardly. "Or a spare toothbrush. The Tesco and Sainsbury's in Farringdon Road are open until eleven, though, if you need to go get one."

I had been planning to just do without, or use magic, but being able to brush my teeth the usual way would make this less unpleasant. "Thank you, Simon. Will you two be all right if I'm out for half an hour?"

He shrugs. "I'm sure we'll be fine. We're just going to bed. Baz is practically asleep already."

I give him a hint of a smile and stand up, straightening my papers. "I think I will pop down. Back soon."

He smiles at me with one corner of his mouth, then rubs the back of his neck, hesitates, and turns and goes back into the bedroom.

I look at the blankets and cushions on the couch -- it occurs to me that I’m Simon Snow’s houseguest tonight.  It’s deeply surreal.

To this day I’m a little astonished that Simon has apparently forgiven us for everything we did to him -- and tried to do -- before the Mage died.   I’ve always felt sort of rotten about everything we did -- he was only a child.  I really should have said something at the time.  But we were desperate, and we felt the best way to get to the Mage was through his heir, and my own heir was in the perfect position to be our instrument on that front.  (Basil was only a child, too.  I don’t know how I went along with it.  How I let The Families convince me their plans were reasonable.) (There’s a lot about that version of myself I don’t quite understand any more.  I didn’t think I’d changed that much in these few intervening years.)

I did get a chance to talk to Simon about it once, a couple of years ago. I tried to apologise.  He shrugged it off, said something about how he understood and it doesn’t matter any more, that all of that was in the past.  He caught me a bit off-balance with that, and I dropped it, though more out of surprise than any feeling of resolution.  I’m certain that a large part of his acceptance is because of his relationship with Basil -- they’ve had to have put that all behind them in order to have the stable relationship that they do.  Has he forgiven me because he loves my son?

Neither of them has ever really talked to me about it, though.  I feel like this is a conversation we ought to have at some point, especially with them getting married in a year.  It’s not a talk I’m looking forward to, but Daphne must be having an effect on me because I feel more and more like this is something that can’t continue to be left unsaid.  Not if we really want Simon to become part of the family.  Trust is paramount, and I’m not sure whether he does trust us.  He trusts Basilton, of course -- that much is obvious.  But I want him to be able to trust all of us.

There’s a ring of keys on a hook next to the door, and I take them on my way out.

I walk to Tesco, where I turn quite a few heads -- not many other customers there in three-piece suits at half ten on Friday evening, and I know I look intimidating. I get my toothbrush, then on impulse pick up some milk, eggs, a box of Weetabix, a pint of decent-looking strawberries, and a couple bananas, then head back to the boys' flat. I've only been gone twenty minutes, but the bedroom is dark and the boys are asleep; I can hear one of them snoring softly.

I arrange the pillows and blankets on the couch, then go to brush my teeth. Afterwards I undress as much as I have to, draping my suit carefully over one of their chairs, then turn off the lights and get into my makeshift bed. The streetlights outside cast a sodium-yellow glow through the windows, but we're high enough, on the fourth storey, that it's indirect and dim.

There's a shelf of books above the couch, up high on the wall, and now that I'm looking at it I realize there aren't any brackets holding it up. No holes to patch when they move out. I pause, feeling the magic, smelling; I can make out cedar smoke (Basilton) and burning leaves (his aunt Fiona) and a little bit of something warm and herbal (I wonder if that's the Bunce girl).

I try to remember if I ever knew what Simon Snow's magic felt like, ever experienced it up close. Basilton told me once that when he "went off" it felt like a lightning strike and left everything smelling of ozone. I know I did feel it distantly, however many times, over the last ten-odd years; how could I have escaped it? No one I know will ever forget that night in August of 2008 -- it was like being electrocuted. It was terrifying. Basil was just a boy then; he came running to my bedroom in the middle of the night, so confused and afraid, trying not to cry because he was about to start at Watford and he was eager to show me how independent he was.  It was only weeks later that he met Simon.

I was only ever inside their room in Mummers House a couple of times, helping Basilton move his things. Thinking on that triggers a memory -- June, probably the end of their fifth or sixth year. There always seemed to be some to-do involving Simon at the end of each school year, and Basilton had been caught up in this one. I remember following him up to their tower to help with his trunk and thinking it smelled like there had been an electrical fire the previous day -- like both of them had been using a lot of magic. I never asked him why, and he never explained. For as much as we talked about Simon Snow back then (and he always seemed to be coming up, with all the politics happening at the time between the Families and the Mage), he never really told me anything about their personal interactions.  What it was like living with him, whether they got along aside from the political thing.  Basilton never talked about how he felt.

Now, of course, I know why. It's hard to fault him for not wanting me to know that he was in love with The Mage's Heir.

I'm glad he trusts me with that knowledge, now. It's inescapable, I suppose, since they moved in together a year ago, into this tiny one-bedroom hole-in-the-wall. But of course he had made it clear long before that; I'm not sure when precisely they went from snarling at each other's throats to holding hands and kissing, but I knew he was hiding something, and then The Mage died and everything changed. He stopped hiding and it was plain as day. I never made my knowledge (my disapproval) a secret either, but there was a while where we didn't talk about it.

I regret that, now. I see how it hurt him, how it didn't do anyone any good. It only pushed us apart, which was never my desire.

And now I'm lying on their couch in the dark, listening to the sounds of them breathing from their bed in the next room, and torturing myself about how I could have (should have) been a better father. Would Basilton have called me on his own about this if I'd done things differently in the past? Would I have heard from someone other than Martin sodding _Bunce_ that my son was in danger? He's been hiding, from _Simon_ even, and I wish I knew how to help.

 

***

 

It's early when I wake up in the morning to the sound of the shower turning on.

I will never get used to how small this place is. All night I felt like my presence was a terrible imposition on their privacy, with only a thin wall between us and their bedroom door not even shut. I'm fairly sure now that the one who snores is Basilton; he had that broken nose years ago that healed poorly. (I thought about casting some kind of spell last night, to separate us from one another just a little, but I didn't.) There's nothing for me to do while the bathroom's occupied, so I doze off again, until the water turns off, and Simon comes out a few minutes later in dripping hair and a green dressing gown that's most of the way to threadbare. I wonder how long he's had it.

He startles when he sees me, but relaxes after a moment. (He's still so tightly wound.) "Oh. Good morning."

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

He nods. "Okay. You?"

"Fine, thank you."

Simon pads into the kitchen, and I begin the process of extracting myself from the sofa. "I bought milk and things when I went to Tesco last night," I say. "I noticed you didn't have much in."

Simon opens the fridge, and he sounds surprised. "Oh, wow. Thanks."

He puts the kettle on, and I head into the bathroom, hesitating only a moment to peek into the bedroom. Basilton is wrapped in so many blankets I can barely see him, just a tangle of dark hair on the pillow and soft raspy breathing.

I haven't got a change of clothes, but I **Clean as a whistle** what I wore yesterday and freshen up with a washcloth I find with the clean towels. I think about shaving, but I'm not going to use a disposable razor from Tesco, and I'm not going to use Basil's straight razor without his permission. I'll have to go without, which is fine. Daphne's not here to complain about it.

 

***

 

Basilton doesn't wake up until several hours later, by which point it seems like Simon has fussed with everything in the flat in a vain effort to find a direction for his anxiety.  (I wish I knew something I could do to help, but instead I just try to stay out of the way.) He leaps up as soon as he hears my son get out of bed, and all but follows him into the bathroom; instead he goes to the kitchen and starts boiling water for eggs and washing and slicing the remaining strawberries. He and I have already eaten, of course, and I don't really see Basilton being that hungry, but I don't stop him.

I clear away from the table to the couch when Basilton comes out a minute later, still wearing just what he went to bed in, a slightly dingy white t-shirt and navy pyjama bottoms. He takes a jar of blood out of the fridge before he sits down at the table where I was. Simon drops the paring knife and spins around when he hears him take the lid off. "You're going to drink it cold?"

Basil glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs.

"Baz, you hate it cold. Warm it up, you'll feel better."

"I won't," he mutters. "And I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? It's just your dad."

"It's not about _him_." He lets out a frustrated sigh, and looks at me apologetically. "It's not about you. It's ... I can't. I haven't got the magic."

My breath catches in my throat; Simon makes a strangled sort of sound and goes pale. "You _what_?"

Basilton is staring blankly into the dark red liquid. "I tried, the other day, to warm it up like I usually do. The spell didn't work."

"What do you mean it didn't work? It's supposed to be weak...."

I don't know what spell they're talking about, but I'm worried now. His magic _isn't working?_

"I mean it didn't _work_ , Simon. I couldn't get at my magic to make it work." He picks up the jar, takes a sip, grimaces while he swallows. I can see his cheeks filling out when his fangs enlarge, and he's slurring a little when he speaks again. "I haven't been able to use magic for a while."

Simon has completely forgotten about the water on the stove and the strawberries on the counter, and he's staring at Basil, aghast. I’m half certain my face is a mirror of his. "How long?" I ask.

Basilton shrugs again, looking miserable. "I don't know. A month? Maybe longer? Spells aren't working. I can feel my magic, it's still there, but I can't get at it. I can't even--" He twists his fingers into a fist, drops it on the table. "I can't even conjure a flame. I can do that without even _trying_ , but ... I can't do it."

Merlin and Morgana, this is serious. Simon looks stricken. "Why didn't you tell me?" he breathes.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Jesus, Baz, didn't you think this was important? That this is something I need to know?!" He's talking too loudly now, panicking. I stand up and walk over to him, try to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder. (I also turn off the hob, because he's leaning against it and I don't want any of us to catch fire.)

Basilton shakes his head; he's not looking at us. "I didn't know what to do."

Simon is trembling, taking deep, shaky breaths. "You need to talk to Jeri."

"I don't want to talk to bloody _Jeri_ ," Basil groans, putting his face in his hands. "She doesn’t have the answer to everything."

"Like you're doing so great by yourself!" Simon says.  His voice is raised but it’s quavering, like he’s about to cry, and his arms are shaking; he crosses them over his chest like he’s trying to hold them still. "Baz, _please_ , you need help."

"What _possible_ help could she be?" Basil demands, standing up suddenly, banging his hands on the table, and stalking towards us with menace. The kitchen is tiny, and for a moment I feel trapped, surrounded. (By my own _son._ ) "What will she do?" he shouts. "Talk to me? Tell me to see a Normal doctor and get put on a fucking SSRI? You know that wouldn't do shit for me, you _know._ I've had bloody enough talking for a _lifetime_ , Snow, and nothing, _nothing_ will change the fact that I've failed you, and I've failed myself, and I've failed my family, and now my magic is failing _me_ and I haven't got anything left because I don't _deserve_ any of it!"

He's standing right in front of us, tall and wild, with dark circles under his eyes and a desperate look on his face, and for a split second he reminds me so much of his mother that it breaks my heart. I’m too shocked by his outburst to speak, and Simon looks like it’s taking everything he has to hold himself together against the onslaught of terrible things from inside Basilton’s head.

After a moment something in Simon’s control cracks, all of his overwhelming emotions storm onto his face, and he steps forward. Basil flinches back, but Simon is faster and grabs him and bursts into tears against his chest.

He looks down at Simon, then up at me, and his countenance changes in an instant, the aggression drops away like it was never there at all.  He looks lost, so lost and so small and so helpless. His arms are hanging at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

I don't know what to do either, and so we both just stand there for a couple minutes, looking at each other while Simon hiccups his way back to sanity and finally lets go of Basil's shirt, which now has a pink smudge of strawberry stain on one shoulder, and is wet with tears on the other.

"Sorry," he gasps, stepping back and wiping at his face. "I'm sorry, Baz, that was ... I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," he protests automatically, weakly. His fangs have fully receded by now. "But, why did you ..."

"Because you're _wrong_ ," Simon says, forcefully, and Basilton takes a step back again; he's up against the refrigerator now. "You're so wrong, you don't even know how wrong you are."

Basil shakes his head.  "Wrong about what?"

"Everything you just said." Simon sounds broken-hearted. "You haven't _failed_ , Baz."

He looks honestly confused. "What are you _talking_ about? I've been failing at everything for months. For _years_."

"No, Baz, _god,_ no." Simon runs a hand through his hair and bites his lip, than turns to the table. "Sit down."

"Why?"

"Please."

Basilton looks at me, and I gesture to the table. "Do as he asks."

He moves, but slowly. "What are we doing?"

"CBT," Simon says, sitting down. "Only, not really, because I'm not the person to teach you. But we're gonna kind of do it. A little."

"Cognitive behavioural therapy?"

"Yeah."

"You're not a therapist."

"Understatement of the year,” Simon mutters. “Please sit down?"

He does, reluctantly, and crosses his arms. Simon leans forward on his elbows with a heartbreakingly earnest expression on his face. "You're not a failure, Baz."

Basilton looks like he might cry. He swallows hard. "Yes I am."

"You're not. You only think you are."

"I am, I can't do anything right. I'm worthless."

"That's not _true_." Simon looks up at me with worry in his eyes, and I step up behind him, gripping the counter for emotional support.

"You're not worthless, Basilton. You're not a failure."

He closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and a pair of fat tears fall down his face. "How can you say that?" he whispers.

"Because it's true. You haven't failed at anything." He's biting his lips so hard I think he'll draw blood. I continue. "You haven't failed at school, and you haven't failed Simon, and you haven't failed me. You're in a difficult situation, and you're doing an excellent job."

"I skipped class yesterday." It bursts out of him, a sob, and he claps a hand over his mouth.

"Extenuating circumstances," I say, as gently as I can. "It was an emergency. You weren't well. You're not well now."

He's shaking his head, not speaking. "You're just in a tough spot right now," Simon says. "But you're doing great. You're about to get _another_ degree, and you're brilliant, and successful, and I love you. _I love you._ "

More tears run down Basilton's cheeks. "How?" he gasps. "How can you possibly love me?"

"Because you're my _world_ ," Simon says, on the edge of crying again himself. "Because we're meant to be. Because ... because loving you is the _only_ thing in my life I’ve ever been _completely_ sure of."

"It doesn't make _sense_."

"No, it doesn't. And that's why you have to believe me. Love isn't accounting, you don't have to add up to be _good enough_ for me. I just love you. I love you because you're Basilton Grimm-Pitch and I'm Simon Snow, and that's the only way it can be for us."

"But ..."

"But nothing," Simon interrupts.  He’s on a roll now, sounding desperate and confident and like he'd be doing magic if he still could. "I _love_ you, against reason, against sense. I love you when you're brilliant and I love you when you're not, and I love you when you're happy and when you're sad, and when you're gorgeous and when you stink and your hair is --" He gestures above his own head with both hands, and Basil gives him a broken, miserable sort of smile and almost laughs. Simon reaches across the table and takes his hands. "My love isn't _conditional_ , Baz. You don't have to _earn_ me. I love you no matter what, I _choose_ you, and I'm not changing my mind."

Basilton stares at him for a long minute, blinking fast and breathing hard, and then he stands up and rounds the table. I step back, giving them what space I can, and he takes Simon's face in his hands and leans down and kisses him, once, twice, three times, none of them quite on the lips.  Then he sinks to his knees and hides his face against Simon’s thigh, one arm around his hip and the other hand on his knee, trembling.

“I love you,” Simon says again, softly, and there are tears in his eyes as he rubs Basil’s back.

“I l-love you too,” Basil gasps, sobbing and clutching at Simon.  The sound of his voice twists in my chest -- this is the voice of a young man who was desperate to find anything even slightly good, and now he’s overwhelmed by the force of the love he didn’t think he actually had.  Simon’s given him something incredibly profound, but Basil simply doesn’t have the emotional capacity to handle it right now.  All he can do is sit on the floor and weep.

Simon leans down and hugs him as best he can at such an awkward angle.  This moment between them has become even more intimate than it already was, and I step carefully around them, over to the other side of the flat, and take a few moments to compose myself.  I really ought to have foreseen how emotional this all was going to be, when I decided to stay with them, but here I am, unprepared for what it’s making _me_ feel.

This window into Basilton’s depression is reminding me that I felt like this, once.  Maybe not exactly like this, since mine was brought on by ---

But I remember feeling like everything was irreparably broken, like _I_ was broken, like I would never feel happiness again and if I did I didn’t deserve it.  What I wouldn’t have given then to have what Simon is giving my son right now.  That was impossible for me, of course, in my situation.  It would have fixed the problem.  I wanted it more than anything.

Somehow I got better.  It’s been almost twenty years and I’m still not sure how it happened, but I did get better.  Even though I was sure I wouldn’t.

And Basilton will get better too.  I suppose it’s too much to hope that what happened just now was a breakthrough for him, but it was a large step.  I think.  The first of many, I’m sure, but a step towards him recovering.  Everything’s out in the open now, and we’re all here to do what we must.


	12. Act 4, scene i

_-Simon-_

I feel drained. Really, completely worn out. Not to mention precariously low on words. And it's only bloody nine AM. But Baz is doing better now, a little bit, and I think he's realised how poorly he really was, so it may be easier to convince him to actually have a session with Jeri.

He's in the shower now, which is good, because his hair really was a mess, and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in a couple of days. Which was a little odd because I know he did yesterday, before he came to see me. Maybe he forgot to use soap, or something? Or it could be that our sheets need to be washed and it's rubbing off on both of us. Maybe I should run some laundry.

Malcolm and I  convinced him to drink nearly a quart of blood, too; he really needed it. I could tell he didn't want to. (Does he ever want to?) And he drank it cold. Neither of us was going to try to teach that spell to his dad, for loads of reasons. Maybe if I rig up a double boiler I could at least take the chill off it for him, next time. (If he needs it next time.  I have no idea when his magic will come back.) Anyway, even when he doesn't like it, he needs it. He's more himself after.

Baz's dad suggested to me that I might want to cook today, and that sounds nice, I can put a meal together and feel like I've accomplished something useful. It's one of the few responsibilities in my life that doesn't give me anxiety, since me not doing it is definitely not the end of the world -- we actually rely on the back-ups from time to time in the normal course of things. (The back-ups being curry packets and/or takeaway -- not the same as a home-cooked meal, but they keep us fed, and they taste good. Using them isn't a crisis, it's just normal.)

I have to plan and shop first, though, because we don't really have anything in, so I've got out one of my favourite cookbooks and I'm flipping through it, waiting for inspiration to strike. I'm not up for anything very involved, but I could do something like spaghetti bolognese, a salad, maybe garlic bread ...

I'm making my shopping list when Baz comes back, clean and dressed in a maroon tee and dark jeans, but still bearded. His dad is sitting across from me at the table, focussing on something on his phone, and we both look up at Baz.

"You didn't shave, Basilton."

"I don't trust myself," he says darkly, rubbing his chin.

His dad gets a look like he's just had a brilliant idea. "Do you trust _me_?"

Baz looks confused, then startled. "What?"

"I'll give you a shave."

The disbelief and restrained mistrust is practically radiating off him. "Why?"

His dad sighs. "Because I'm your father, and I'm here to take care of you."

"I don't need you to shave me, I'm not a child."

"And I'm not a barber. But it's nice, getting a shave. You'll feel better."

The set of Baz's shoulders changes, just a bit. He seems to be actually considering it now; he looks at me, and I shrug. "You do need it. You're looking like ... I don't know. The beard makes you look old."

Baz frowns at me, then looks at his father again, softer. "You're serious?"

"Of course."

He still seems a little uncertain, but he gives a tiny nod. "Okay, I guess. If you don't mind."

“I don’t mind.”  His dad is smiling hopefully at him, and stands up. "In the kitchen? The light's good."

"Yeah, sure. Let me just--"

"I've got it," his dad interrupts. "I'm not your houseguest, and I know where everything is, it's a small bathroom. You boil the kettle and put some cushions on one of those chairs."

"Oh. Okay." He fills the kettle from the tap and switches it on, then pulls the other chair out from the table and gives me a look that seems to say _Is this really happening?_

I shrug, and try to telegraph _Apparently so_ , but I don't know if I'm successful. He gets a pillow off the couch and puts it on the chair, then stands awkwardly until his dad comes back a few moments later with Baz's straight razor, mug and brush, leather strop, and a stack of towels. He sets these on the counter next to the sink, and pulls out my two largest mixing bowls.

I watch, fascinated, while they set up. Mr Grimm takes off his suit jacket first, then the waistcoat and tie, and rolls up his shirtsleeves. One towel gets soaked in hot water while they arrange the chair so the light is best, and Baz finally leans back on the cushion and his father wraps a bath towel around his shoulders and settles the hot towel over the lower part of his face. Baz sighs with contentment, visibly relaxes, and his father smiles at him just a little before he starts working the soap into a lather.

I've always found the straight razor shave thing sort of unnecessarily fancy. Despite Baz's best efforts, I just use whatever safety razor I can get cheapest at Boots when I need one, and shaving cream from a can. But he's never done it that way: he showed up at Watford our third year with this straight razor and all the other bits and bobs, and he goes through the whole production every day. Well, nearly every day. Once in a while he'll skip a day, for whatever reason. I've never let him skip more than one, though. Beardy Baz is a novelty the first time, and yes, kind of sexy, but it's also a guarantee for stubble burn. This current almost-a-week of not shaving is unprecedented.

I found out when we first started living together as a couple _why_ he goes through it like this, and it's not only because he's posh. (Though it is also because he's posh.) He gets a much closer shave with the straight razor, and since his beard comes in thick and dark, just like all the rest of his hair, a close shave means that his five o'clock shadow actually shows up at five, instead of two.

I wonder if it would be less noticeable if he weren't so pale. What would he look like if his skin was still his natural colour? I've seen a few photos from when he was very young, before he got Turned, some of them with his mother. They made a lovely pair, with their black hair and dark olive skin, and little baby Baz looks so rosy and vibrant in every picture.

He has his hands folded on his stomach right now, and his skin is nearly white, with just the barest blush in his fingertips; his arms are equally pale, though darkened somewhat by the hair that swirls from above his elbows down past his wrists and halfway up the backs of his hands. And then his father takes the towel off his face, which is decidedly pink now, and starts applying the lather.

Baz and his father don't look a whole lot alike, aside from the widow's peak in the hairline, and that they're both six-one with the same slim build. Malcolm Grimm has a light, sometimes ruddy complexion, and apparently used to have dark brown hair, before it all went white at once when Baz's mum died. His jaw is broad and angular, and he's got sharp cheekbones and a large, pointed nose; his whole face is made of angles, really, unlike Baz's, which is much less severe, rounder, softer. (Terrifying in a different way, in a beautiful way.) But what they lack in looking related, they more than make up for by having practically identical facial expressions and mannerisms. It's a little uncanny sometimes.

Malcolm opens the razor and holds it up to the light, visually inspecting the blade. He hooks the strop on one of the kitchen drawer pulls, then draws it back and forth a few times with enviable confidence. He turns his attention to his son. "Comfortable?"

"Mm-hmm." Baz's eyes are closed; he actually looks at ease.

"I'm going to start on your right side."

"'Kay."

I know I'm staring, and I'm sure they know I'm staring, but I can't look away. Malcolm shaves Baz slowly and carefully, like he's making an instructional video, but without any narration. The only sound in the flat is our breathing and the soft scraping of the razor, interspersed with gentle splashing when Malcolm rinses it off in the second bowl. After a bit the fridge compressor kicks on with a rattle and a raspy hum.

When he's finally finished, he brings back the first hot towel to wipe off the rest of the foam, and Baz sighs, taking the towel from him gently.

"Should I do another pass?" his dad asks.

"No, that's fine. One will do." Baz is sitting up now, running his hand over his jaw -- he looks himself again, now that he's clean-shaven. "I, um ... thank you."

His father is at the kitchen sink, cleaning up, and glances over his shoulder. "You're welcome."

Baz stands up, puts the chair away and then takes the cushion back to the couch. I catch his hand when he goes back towards the kitchen. "Let me feel."

He gives me a little smile, and leans down so I can brush my lips over his cheek: it's perfectly soft, and he smells like soap. I kiss his lips, too, while he's there. "Aftershave?" I ask, and he nods.

"Yeah, when I put stuff away."

I love his aftershave lotion. It's the scent I've always associated with him, the cedar and bergamot that hung in our bathroom for so many years. (And does again, now; this flat started feeling like home as soon as he unpacked it here.) I have no idea where he gets it, it doesn't have a label, but he's always had it. I think he loves it as much as I do.

 

***

 

It's not long after that we head out to Waitrose, and it feels like going on some kind of quest with both of them in tow, Malcolm in his charcoal grey suit and Baz wearing a light wool cardigan even though it's June. (It feels like being at Watford again, like we're off to fight some Dark creature; I have to take a minute when we get down to the street to calm myself. It's just the Waitrose up by the other Tesco. There's no chimera, no Humdrum.) Normally I shop on my own, but I guess the theme of the weekend is togetherness, and I'm not about to fight that after what we've been through. Plus apparently Baz's dad is buying, and I won’t say no to that.

I want scones, and I want them _bad_ , like I always do when my anxiety is flaring. This means that cherries and self-raising flour are on the top of my list, and Baz and his dad are going to have to fight over who carries the basket with the two-kilo bag of flour for our whole time in the shop.

Baz winds up being the one to carry it, and he doesn't complain. But he still looks sad, and he doesn't really say anything while we're there, just tags along. I don't say much either, and his father isn't exactly one to talk to himself, so we're a pretty quiet shopping expedition except for the discussion we have about the one thing they apparently care about, which is that fresh pasta is better than dried. Which, it is, I know. But they both scold me in unison when I take a box of linguini off the shelf and practically drag me to the refrigerator, which seems excessive. But I'm not paying, and fresh _is_ better, so I roll with it, and I choose fresh pappardelle, and pick up two blocks of expensive butter while I'm at it.

We're not there very long, and on our walk back Malcolm carries the bags while I hold Baz's hand. He's still dragging somewhat, but he's perked up a little bit. He's more himself. (Not fully, but ... closer.)

We picked up sandwiches while we were there, and while I'm putting away the groceries Baz finds some nature documentary on the telly, and we all sit around and eat our cheese and tomatoes on brown bread while Stephen Fry talks about New Zealand. I feel like I've seen this programme before, or maybe just clips online. The huge flightless parrots he's talking about are pretty unforgettable, and I seem to remember something about one of them trying to shag a photographer, but they won't put that on the BBC at this time of day, I suppose.

Malcolm stands up when he's finished; Baz and I are still sat on the couch. "I need to make some calls," he says. "I thought it's best if I do that outside. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?"

Baz is looking at him, and I can't see his face clearly; he looks blank, but not the same depressed blank I've grown used to seeing recently. More like the careful blank he gets when he's keeping something private. "How long is a bit?"

His father blinks at him with a sort of knowing look that I don't fully understand -- they're definitely having another, silent conversation. "An hour, perhaps?"

"I'm sure we'll be fine that long."

His father glances at me and nods. "Very well. I'll see you in an hour, then."

"All right, see you then," Baz replies.

I'm still confused as Malcolm gathers a couple of his things and heads out into the stairs, but as soon as the door is shut Baz practically throws himself on top of me -- at which point his intention becomes clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shagged by a rare parrot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9T1vfsHYiKY)


	13. Act 4, scene ii

_-Simon-_

It occurs to me I don't know the last time we had sex -- weeks ago, probably. We've both been so busy and stressed, we've barely had time, and neither of us was in the mood when we did have a few hours to ourselves. He's been so down, and I've been so anxious, it was the last thing on our minds. But now that he’s on top of me, reminding me that we do actually have a physical relationship, I realise I've missed it, missed _him_ , terribly.  

Kissing him is fucking _amazing_. His lips are firm and his face is so soft and smooth and the smell of him is doing lovely things to me. I push my hands into his hair and the strands slide luxuriously through my fingers.

"You seem ... better," I say, when he breaks off kissing me long enough for me to find a couple of words.

He nods, and he's panting a little; he cups my cheek in his hand and gives me a gentle smile. "I am. It's _such_ a relief, Simon, I can't even tell you. I actually kind of feel like a person again, so I hope you don't mind that I'm going to seize the opportunity."

_Feel like a person again?_ Suddenly I realise I wasn't even really aware of what he was going through, he -- he _didn't feel like a person_? I thought he was ... sad, down. Tired. I didn't know he didn't even--  What does that even _mean?_

He takes his mouth off my neck and sits up, looking concerned. "Simon?"

I blink up at him, and I can feel my heart breaking a little, feel the pressure of anxiety building behind my breastbone. "You didn't feel like a _person_?" My voice comes out sounding a bit choked.

He makes a distressed face. "Can we not talk about that just now?"

"Baz, it's a big deal!"

"It's a _huge_ deal," he agrees. "But I'm trying to get in your trousers right now and this is seriously killing the mood."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just ..." My chest feels like it’s being crushed.  I have to move, I have to get some space -- I sit up, pushing him off me, and then get up off the couch and pace into the kitchen, shaking my arms like I used to when I had too much magic, breathing so deeply it makes my lungs ache. Why am I freaking out, _why_ am I freaking out? "Sorry, I need a minute. I have to ... I don’t know what to do with that."  How does someone not feel like a person?!

He's still kneeling on the couch, looking shocked and hurt. "Simon, I--"

"A minute, _please_ ," I interrupt, more forcefully than I mean to, and he bites his lip and looks like he might cry.

Shit, _shit_ , I'm doing this wrong, I'm turning it back on him. Yes, maybe he didn't tell me what his depression felt like, but that's not his fault, and it's not his fault I'm having trouble with it now. Now _I_ feel like I might cry -- I can't believe I've just done this to him.

I stumble back over and wrap my arms around him. "I'm sorry, Baz, I'm so sorry."

He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and pushes up off the couch, so he's standing slightly over me, like always. The change in our centre of mass throws me off balance but he holds me tight, steadies us. "I am, too," he mumbles against my collarbone, and I reach up to run my fingers through his hair again, prompting a sigh.

"Take me to bed," he begs. "Please, Simon, I need you."

He's already pushing me gently backwards, towards the bedroom. I take his face in my hands and kiss him, deeply, desperately, and he hums with want, that wonderful rumbly sound, and pushes harder, guiding us through the door until the backs of my knees hit the bed.

I climb on top of the blankets, and he follows, settling his hips between my spread thighs while his kisses continue. His touch is electric, and the smell of him, of what I imagine is his arousal, is so incredibly heady I feel like I'm going a little fuzzy around the edges.

But there’s a little part of me, some corner of my brain, that’s not fully distracted by Baz’s mouth and hands on my body.  It’s still feeling the anxiety, still pushing dissonant thoughts through my mind: isn’t this all happening quite quickly?  How did I make that 180 from freakout to fucking?  I’m not too surprised that Baz did; in the years we’ve been together I’ve never known him to _not_ be interested in sex at a moment’s notice.  But I do find it odd that apparently even his _father_ knew that Baz was desperate to get me into bed this afternoon.  How did I miss _that?_  Would I be more fully here for this now if I’d known half an hour ago that Baz wanted this so badly?

He seems to notice me withdrawing into my thoughts, and pulls his head back enough to narrow his lovely grey eyes at me, a silent _Pay attention!_ before he nips my lower lip.  His bite is just sharp enough to catapult me back into sensation, to the awareness of his face pressing into mine, his body heavy on top of me.  One of his hands is on the side of my face, and I lean into it; he hums and opens his mouth.

When his tongue slips against mine it finally silences that annoying part of my mind, but I barely notice because I’m so overcome with how much I’m craving him.  I tighten my arms around him, pull one leg over the back of his knees.  He’s here and he’s mine and I love him, _I love him._

He tips to the side a little and I take the advantage, rolling him onto his back and straddling him. His eyes are dilated, big and dark, and his mouth is wet and swollen; I come back in for more. I'm starting to get close already, I'm getting that pleasant tingling all over, that pressure building in my groin that would be impossible to ignore even if I wanted to.

Baz is making delicious noises below me; I sit up, giving us both a moment to breathe, but I can't stop moving, can’t stop making love to him. I need to touch his skin -- I slide my hands under his shirt, pushing it up, and I tweak his nipples.

"Steady on, Snow." The words lack any bite, seeing as he's breathless and his fingertips are digging into my thighs. And his cock is definitely fully hard now, pressing against mine through our trousers.

"No time for that," I murmur, leaning in again while I grind down, prompting an obscene moan.

"Jesus, Simon, stop, I'm too close."

I hesitate; as much as my blood is screaming at me to keep going, _keep going_ , I have to listen to him.  I'd love to get him off as quickly as possible, he doesn't like coming in his pants. Which is understandable, it just means I have to change my strategy.  I take a breath, trying to wind myself down just a little. "What do you want?"

He's panting, eyes half shut, and it takes him a moment to answer. "I don't really care, as long as you're touching me."

I’m calmer now, enough so to be able to think.  I swing my leg over and lie down next to him, then unbutton his jeans and slide my hand in. His prick is cool and throbbing and I give it a gentle tug. "Like this?"

"Oh my god." He arches into my touch. "I'm not going to last."

I kiss the side of his neck. "You don't have to."

"Oh, fuck, Simon --" His fingers twist in my hair, and he grips almost to the point of pain. It sends me right back to the overwhelming need from a minute ago, and I thrust against his leg as he comes in my palm with a guttural cry.

He rolls into me, still trembling from his orgasm, and kisses me, sloppy and desperate. His hand slips between us and gets my trousers open, and with a few almost-too-rough strokes I'm coming too, hot and fast, gasping against his mouth.

  


_-Baz-_

 

We clean up quickly before we fall back into bed and doze off, but we wake up a short while later when my father comes back. Simon rolls over and gets out of bed right away, but I don't have that kind of energy. I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling for a minute, then haul myself up to sitting, stand up, zip my jeans.

Shit, falling asleep was a mistake; I felt okay before but I feel like crap again now, like I was dead for forty-five minutes instead of just napping. I probably should comb my hair, but I don't have it in me.

No -- no, that's not me, that’s not the person I’ve been trying my whole life to be. It seems impossible, but I'm going to comb my hair. Even though it feels stupid and pointless.

That feeling-like-myself I had before have definitely gone again. I feel like maybe I should feel the emptiness more strongly now in contrast to that, but I don't. Or maybe this feeling down now isn't as bad as what I had before. It's hard to know. Or, I don't know, maybe having sex helped. Neurotransmitters and whatever.

Combing my hair turns out to be a lot less impossible than I thought, and it makes me look ... nice. Well, as nice as I can with the dark circles around my eyes on top of the perpetual greyish cast my skin has. I think about pulling my hair back, but that seems excessive, so I take another thirty seconds to at least give it a straight part and tuck it behind my ears. It occurs to me that it's been quite a while since my last cut -- it's to my shoulders now, longer than I usually wear it. I occasionally think about getting it cut really short, a more masculine style. But, well ... I'm vain, I guess. I don't feel any necessity to look especially masculine, and I like my hair long, it feels luxurious. (That I like something about myself is a bit of a change, and I try not to be surprised by it.) Simon definitely likes it. And I look intimidating when I pull it back severely. I think I'll keep it this length, it's been working for me.

I could use a trim though, I'm starting to get a couple of split ends. Plus my eyebrows are getting unruly. Maybe I'll block off some time for that this week. Or maybe I should just wait until all of this with school is done and I have a couple days to breathe. In any case, I ought to keep up with my grooming, even if it feels like I’m just going through the motions.

Simon is talking with my father out in the main room, and they both turn to look at me when I step out. I feel suddenly suspicious, defensive. "What's going on?"

"I think you and Simon have some things to do," my father says, carefully, and Simon looks nervous.

I swallow -- I guess it's time now. "Yeah, I think we do."

"Which of you is first?"

I frown at him. "We don't need to be baby-sat."

"Of course not," he says smoothly. "But I think you'll want to support one another. And we can only deal with one minor crisis at a time. So who's first?"

Simon and I look at each other. His eyes are huge and so, so blue. He looks terrified. "I'll be first," I sigh.

I have two things to do, really -- first I have to contact the professor whose class I missed yesterday, grovel a bit. Then I have to call Casey, because I owe it to her after these past forty-eight hours, after I stood her up for our usual revision thing with no explanation. I get my laptop out and sit on the couch, and Simon cuddles up beside me.

He seems to sense my hesitance to get started, and lays a hand on my chest, stroking gently and interrupting my dithering on actually opening the computer.  “Okay?” he murmurs.

I close my eyes -- the answer is no, but I don’t want to tell him that.  I can’t tell him how pointless and awful this all feels.  So I don’t say anything, and I think he understands, because he gives me a little rub.  His hand feels warm, even through my shirt, and the touch is so gentle, so comforting, so _grounding._ It gives me the seed of a feeling that this isn’t impossible, not with Simon at my side.

Being responsible sucks, but I make it through. The email to my professor is good enough, and I'll probably hear from her tomorrow. I hope against hope that she'll accept my late assignment (the one that was due yesterday -- I should have turned it in early), as well as my apology and my explanation that there was a family emergency. I can't afford to fail this class.

I deal with my inbox while I've got my computer out. There's a lot there, but not much that needs immediate attention. All I really need for now are couple of quick Facebook messages (Dev especially deserves to hear it from me directly -- I'll call him later) and a post to let my other friends know that I'm okay, that I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth. Simon and I had said we were going to the football club thing yesterday afternoon, and everything happened so fast that we never let them know we wouldn't make it. I hope it didn't mess up the teams too much. I hope nobody's upset with us.

Calling Casey isn't as rough as I'd feared. I stay sitting on the couch with Simon while I'm on the phone, and he holds me while I talk to her. She answers right away when I ring, and it's good to hear her voice. I can tell she's relieved to hear that I'm all right -- she was rightly worried when I stood her up, and even more so when I missed the next day of class, and all she's had from me since then was a three-word text, sent in a rush yesterday afternoon before Father took me to get Simon: _Sorry. Family emergency._

Casey knows me well enough after this year of studying together that I tell her the truth: that Simon had a severe panic attack which sent me down a depression spiral. And that I'm doing okay now, that I'm through the worst of it, and things are kind of starting to look up again. I'm not sure if she understands fully (I don't think anybody who hasn't felt this way themselves can understand) but she's sympathetic. We make arrangements for her to come over tomorrow afternoon to catch me up on the last details I missed from Friday's class.

I check my email one last time -- no reply from my professor yet. Though I didn't expect that, at two in the afternoon on a Saturday. There is a notification of a comment from one of the football lads on my post, saying he's glad we're okay and hopes to see us next week. I can't think about that right now, and I put my computer away.

Simon is freaking the fuck out by now, so I have him call Becca first, while I'm still on the couch with him. I position myself so I'm practically sitting in his lap, my arms around his waist, legs draped over his, my nose pressed in the crook of his neck where I can smell his pulse. His heartbeat slows while Becca talks with him, and the metallic scent of adrenalin fades too. His arm is around my shoulders and eventually I find he's absent-mindedly stroking my bicep.

When he rings off with Becca I bring him his laptop, and I lean my cheek on his shoulder while he checks his email. His professor has already written to him, asking if he'll be able to make up his presentation on Monday afternoon. I can hear him breathing carefully while he types, trying to restrain his emotional reaction, to exert conscious control over his limbic system. Becca has already told him that she'll come to watch when he reschedules, and she's going to talk to their other friends and see if anyone else is willing to come support him. If he'd done this yesterday as scheduled, it would have been in front of a dozen other graduating computer scientists, most of them from the group I met a few weeks ago. (It feels like it's been _years_ since that night -- so much has happened, so much has changed. Things that we both had carefully hidden have been brought into the light.)

I find myself feeling awfully protective of Simon right now, while he’s doing this necessary work and obviously struggling with it.  I hate that he’s been having such a hard time recently, and I hate even more that he thought he had to keep it to himself.  I’m not angry with him, of course -- but I’m angry at anything I can latch onto and fling my irritation towards.  How _dare_ the universe be so unkind to my Simon?  Why can’t the world just give him a break, for _once_?

After he sends the email he shuts the computer and places both hands flat on top of it, and spends several seconds breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, staring at the stickers through his fingers. After a minute his shoulder relaxes under me, and I sit up.

"Okay?"

Simon nods roughly. "Yeah. Okay."

I rub his back gently. "You did a good job."

He gives me a hint of a smile. "Thanks."

"That everything you need to do?"

"I mean, I've got some emails and shit I haven't checked, but it's not ... I can deal with it later."

"So you're done for now?"

"Yeah, I just ... I have to work out the nerves." He stands up and tucks his computer back in its bag. "I think ..." He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "I think I'm going to bake."

Father has been sitting at the table with his papers out through all of this (all weekend he's been acting like he's working), and he gives me a quizzical look. I can't help smiling a little. The movement feels strange, unfamiliar. "Baking helps him unwind," I explain.

Simon's already got the fridge open. "That's why I bought stuff this morning." He kicks the door shut; his hands are full with butter, an egg, and the carton of milk.

"Scones?" I say.

Simon nods. "Of course."

"Will you need the table?" my father asks, eyeing the meagre counter space in the kitchen.

"Not yet," Simon says, turning the oven on to preheat, then pulling out his pan. "Not until it's time to roll them out."

I feel like maybe I should be doing something too, but instead I curl up on the end of the couch to watch Simon. Once he has his wet ingredients in a measuring cup and his dry ingredients in a bowl, he digs out his old wire pastry blender to work the butter in by hand like he always does, even thought that Mary Berry cookbook he has says to use a food processor, and we do have one, somewhere. I love watching him do this, watching the muscles flex in his arm, his shoulders, his back. It takes him a couple of minutes, and then he works in the milk and egg with his fingers, and finally folds in the cherries.

Simon's right hand is sticky with the dough now, and when he turns around my father understands him and picks up his papers quickly so they won't get dirty. Simon pulls out his pastry mat with his clean hand, then dusts it expertly with flour before he turns the dough out and pats it into a circle.

He hesitates then, looks around, then finally at me. "Baz?"

I blink, startled out of my trance. "What?"

"Could you get my biscuit cutter? I forgot it when I was setting up and my hands are dirty now."

"Oh. Yeah, okay." I unfold from the couch and pad the few steps to the kitchen. "Where is it?"

He points to the lower cabinets next to the fridge. "Bottom drawer. Might be buried, but it's in there somewhere."

I crouch down and open the drawer -- there's a ton of crap in here, some of which I don't even really know what it is, but he uses all of it. I find a couple of round biscuit cutters, but I don't know which is the correct size. I offer him both, and he takes the smaller one, then bends down to brush a kiss to my cheek. "Thanks."

I put the other stuff back in the drawer in a jumble, then go back to the couch. I keep watching while he finishes and gets them in the oven, then cleans up after himself. When he finishes he puts the kettle on and gets our teapot down from where it's been gathering dust on top of the fridge -- with just the two of us, we don't use it much. He wipes the dust off with the sponge and then fills it with hot tap water to warm up.

Something inside me loosens, just a bit, and I get a tiny feeling of happiness at the thought of fresh scones and tea. Fresh scones and tea that Simon is making for me and my father because _he's okay_ and he loves me and ... and I realise I finally feel like maybe everything isn't hopeless bullshit.


	14. Act 4, scene iii

_-Simon-_

Baz's father tells us he's leaving after we've had tea and scones, apparently satisfied that Baz and I are in a stable enough state to look after ourselves now. We've dealt with the responsibilities that came up while we were out of commission, we've been having an all-right day. I was sort of expecting to cook for the three of us tonight, but I guess this means we'll have some leftover for later, unless Baz gets his appetite back and makes up for how he hasn't really eaten recently.

I guess we look responsible. I'm not really feeling it, though, and I'm trying to swallow down my anxiety while Malcolm's getting his things together. And then he shakes my hand, thanks me for my hospitality; I think I mumble something in response. He seems like he's thinking about hugging Baz, but then shakes his hand, pats his shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Basil."

Baz swallows; I see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "I will."

Malcolm gives his shoulder one more squeeze before he lets go. "I'll see the both of you again soon.  Basilton, I’ll call you on Wednesday.”

Baz nods.  “Okay.  Talk to you then.”

So we say our goodbyes, and Malcolm goes down the stairs, back to his life, leaving us with ours.

After Baz closes the door behind his father, he turns to me, puts both hands on my shoulders, and gives me a stern look. It's hard to meet his eyes. "Simon, don't do this."

"Don't do what."

He sighs, and he looks tired suddenly, exhausted. He lifts one hand to touch my face. "Please, Simon, no more pretending."

A shudder of aimless, centreless fear shakes its way out of me, and I step into Baz, burying myself in his embrace. "But then I--"

"I know." He wraps his arms around my shoulders. "I know. It feels like it's easier to just pretend things don't suck."

I feel like I might cry, but as soon as I let go of suppressing it, there's a lot less of it than I thought. I let out a shaky breath into his shoulder. "Old habits die hard."

"I know."

I wrap my arms around him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He holds me tighter. "We'll get through this."

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing out the couple of tears that gathered and wiping them on his shirt. I sniff, pick up my face. He loosens his hold just enough so I can take half a step back and we can see each other. "It's stupid that I'm having so much trouble with all of this."

"It's not stupid, Simon."

"It is, though. I've been through so much worse, why is it that I need this much therapy over finishing university and being an adult?"

He looks deeply sad. "Be fair to yourself, Simon. Being an adult isn't easy."

Hearing him say that is unexpectedly dissonant, and I find myself speechless for a moment before I work out why.  “Really?  I thought you, like … you can just _do_ it, can’t you?  It _is_ easy for you.  Doing all the … stuff.  The adult stuff.  You just make it happen.”

Baz leans back, folds his arms, and scowls down at them.  “Well.”  He purses his lips, thinking, and I get the feeling that he wasn’t actually thinking of himself when he said that just now.  “I mean,” he continues, “I … I try to do it that way.  And I feel like … like it’s _supposed_ to be easy.  But it never really has been, not like I thought it should be.  And if this week has shown me anything it’s that I was wrong about that.”

“You’re handling it, though.”

He grimaces.  “For certain values of _handling,_ I suppose.  Other issues notwithstanding.”

“I mean, you’ve got complicating factors,” I say.  “But you’re still _handling it_ in a way I’m … just, really not.”  It feels overly dramatic, but I can’t help heaving a frustrated sigh.  "I wish I could figure out how to be _okay_ with it, with the fact that it’s hard. Instead of freaking out all the time. It wasn't like this before."

“What before?”

“You know, after Watford.  I’m more upset about a job interview than I was about that.”

He looks up at me and both of his eyebrows raise. "Are you serious? It was _so much worse_ last time. Have you forgotten how you barely spoke for a month after the Mage died?"

Shit, I _had_ forgotten. "Oh. Right."

He reaches out and touches my shoulder.  "It's been years since then. It's easy to forget."

"Yeah." Part of me forgetting was how much I didn't _want_ to remember all of that.  Now that I’m actually thinking about some of the details, bits of the horror are coming back to me.

"And that's all part of this now," he continues. "This week didn't happen in a vacuum. You're a product of your past experiences. Not just the Greatest Mage thing either, but growing up in care fucks with people. Life dealt you a shit hand, and you got through it and came out the other side with an anxiety disorder to show for it."

I huff mirthlessly. " _Anxiety disorder._ You sound so clinical, condensing this all into two words."

"And then there's me," he says. "Apparently I've got depression." He drops his gaze and shakes his head slowly. "Or something. I suppose I can't get out of talking to Jeri now, can I?"

I wrap my arms a little tighter around him. "A diagnosis might help."

"I don't see how."

"Trust me." I lean in and kiss him softly, and I'm gratified when he responds, pressing his lips against mine. "She got me through all of that," I murmur. "She can help you through this, if you let her."

"Snakes preserve me, I do trust you." He kisses me again, though it seems hesitant, restrained. "I'll try. For you."

 

  
_-Casey-_

 

I've never been to Basil's flat before, and I've only ever seen his fiancé in pictures, so I'm excited to meet Simon and see if the mental image I have of how Basil lives matches up at all with reality.  He and I arranged my visit today as a way for him to catch up on the class he missed on Friday and start doing a little revision for our exams, but to be honest I’m feeling it a lot more as a social call than anything else.  Spending time with a friend under the pretext of working.

I guess I was expecting something kind of posh, not this average-looking brick building on a side street in Clerkenwell. I call Basil when I arrive and he meets me on the street, then I follow him up. I also wasn't expecting to climb four flights of stairs to a cramped one-bedroom on the top floor.

It's eye-opening, to say the least. This is a side of Basil I haven't seen before, in the hours we've spent studying together over the past year. It's soft here, homey, and their furnishings are all slightly worn-out in a very student-y way. But what really surprises me is that Basil doesn't seem out of place here, even though he's dressed the same way I always see him at school, jeans and a button-up with the collar open. When he's there he looks almost super-human. He's very put-together, carefully controlled, almost like he's a solicitor already.

But in this context it's like I can finally see through that façade; here it's obvious that he's as human as the rest of us. He lives in this low-ceilinged box with Simon who is, when we arrive, wearing yellow rubber gloves and washing dishes in the kitchen sink. He pulls the gloves off and comes over so Basil can introduce us and it's obvious what Basil sees in him: he's warm and sweet and friendly -- and even more attractive than he looks in photos, with bright blue eyes and an easy smile. He also has a moderately strong Lancashire accent, which Basil never mentioned to me before, and is quite endearing. Once we've said hello he puts his earbuds in and goes back to the kitchen, and Basil and I sit at the table and get down to business.

He really didn't miss that much, so it won't take us long to review it. And I know he was panicked that missing class would mean he was going to fail, but now that he's heard back from our professor I hope he sees how ridiculous that fear was. It was only one class, and Dr Gregson has certainly accepted the family emergency explanation, seeing as on the day she spoke with Basil's father and Simon's ... whoever that was.

(I'm not totally clear on Simon's situation -- I know he's an orphan, but apparently he's got a friend's parents who are kind of ... parental to him? But I'm not going to ask.)

My class notes are meticulous, even if I have them organised a bit strangely -- I picked up habits and shorthand during my undergraduate work in chemistry that I've thought about trying to change, because they're ... well, _weird._ But they work for me. It seems to come in handy here, actually, lets me somewhat control the pace of our work, rather than allowing Basil to rush through and get wound up. He knows me well enough to understand me, to follow along and complete his own notes.

After about half an hour I notice him starting to sag, and I fold my hands on my notebook. "Hey. You okay?"

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face -- it's a gesture I've seen from him before, but only after midnight. "Yeah. Or, well ... no."

"Do you want to take a break?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, like he's trying to say no. "Yeah."

I close my notebook and push my chair back. "Can I make tea or something?"

"No, Casey, you're my guest. I'll make tea." He gets up and steps into the kitchen; Simon's finished with the dishes now and has disappeared, presumably into the bedroom, since it's the only other room in the flat and the door is half shut.

I follow Basil. "At least let me put the kettle on. I want to help."

"Okay." He opens a cupboard. "I'm sure you know where the kettle is."

It is, in fact, blindingly obvious where the kettle is, since the whole kitchen is probably not even six square metres. I fill it from the tap and switch it on while Basil is getting down mugs and tea.

"Does Simon want some?"

He glances at me, then shrugs. "I don't know. I'll ask."

He goes over to the bedroom and slips inside. I lean against the counter and stick my hands in my pockets, trying not to eavesdrop on the murmur of their voices.

I've been noticing for a few weeks now that Basil's been having a hard time. It's the end of the course, so things at school are more stressful than usual, but I got the feeling that there was more to it than that. This weekend confirmed my suspicion, though I do wish I'd said something before it got to the point that he had a crisis. I thought I recognized something in him, a look in his eyes that I've seen before. It's been a few years since I last saw it looking back at me from the mirror, but I definitely recognized it.

I'm not sure how much of this to share with Basil. Would it help him to know that I've been depressed, too? Would it help for me to tell him what a difference therapy and medication made to me? I don't think he's even got a proper diagnosis, which is the first step.

But he does have Simon, who apparently has mental health issues of his own that he's been in treatment for. So Basil at least has someone close who can make sure he gets help. He has someone who loves him and doesn't want him to keep living like this.

Today he still looks quite rough, but there's a little hope in his eyes, not just tiredness. It's plain to me that he's not in as bad a place now as he was on Thursday when I saw him briefly in class. Something obviously happened this weekend, and I think it was something positive.

The bedroom door opens, and Basil and Simon both come out. Simon immediately sees the mugs on the counter, and rolls his eyes. "Come on, Baz, let's use the teapot. It's more special."

"Mugs are fine."

"But Casey's here, it's an occasion."

I meet his eye and smile. "I'm not an occasion."

"Nonsense," Simon says, stepping into the kitchen; he takes down a round orange teapot from on top of the fridge. "I like using it, so I'll take any excuse I can get."

"He found it at a charity shop right before we moved in together last summer," Baz explains, sitting back down at the table. "He's still unbearably pleased with himself."

"It's our first teapot," Simon says, grinning at him.

"That's not a thing," Baz argues.

"It ought to be," Simon insists. "And I still think it's one of those vintage ones from America that are so popular."

"It's really not," Baz sighs. "You'd have never got it at Oxfam for a fiver if it was. Plus it would have the brand name on it."

Simon shrugs. "It's like it, anyway. Inspired by."

"Well, obviously," I say; I reach for it and he hands it to me. It's got good heft, seems old, if not quite as old as the ones collectors love. "It's a handsome teapot, at any rate. I like it."

"Keeps the tea warm for a good while, too," Simon says. "I mean, obviously it's not perfect, but better than I expected."

"Why don't you get a cosy for it?" I ask, and Basil scoffs behind me.

"Corking. Simon, we'll get your friend Rebecca to knit us one."

Simon laughs. "She doesn't knit on commission."

"Who said anything about commission? I'm not going to _pay_ for a tea cosy. That's what the microwave is for."

"Are you mad?" I say, handing the teapot back to Simon. "It doesn't taste the same at all when it's reheated."

Basil crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at me. "Doesn't it."

"No, it doesn't, and frankly I'm surprised you of all people don't agree with me."

His mouth drops open before he catches himself. " _Me of all people?_ "

Simon laughs. "Come off it, Baz, you know exactly what she means."

He still looks scandalised, but I'm beginning to suspect it's an act. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

I look at Simon, who's dropping tea bags into the pot. "He's not serious, is he?" I ask. "Everybody knows tea's not as good after you reheat it."

Simon shrugs. "You would not _believe_ the things Baz apparently doesn't care about."

That sounds like a _great_ story. "Wouldn't I?"

Basil puts his hands on his face and groans. "Oh, Simon, no ..."

"Simon, yes!" I counter.

The kettle has boiled; Simon is smiling while he pours it into the pot and brings it to the table. I grab the mugs off the counter and bring them over as well. "Where should I start?" Simon asks Basil. "Instant noodles? Shitty chocolate?"

"I happen to like MSG," Basil says. "And you wouldn't know shitty chocolate if it bit you on the arse. You've never had what they're somehow allowed to sell in America."

"Is it really that awful?" I ask. "I mean, I know they haven't got laws like we do, but ... is it really that bad?"

"It's so much worse," Basil says. "My father brought some back from a trip overseas when I was ten. He hadn't tried it himself first. It was vile."

"It can't be that bad," Simon says.

Baz gives him a pointed look. "I'm going to have Penny bring something for you next time she comes."

"Returning to my point," Simon says. "You like Cadbury Creme Eggs."

"That's because Cadbury Creme Eggs are delicious."

"Um, no?" I interject. "Cadbury eggs are disgusting."

"Thank you!" Simon says, gesturing dramatically. "Baz makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world who realises how awful they are."

"Oh, you're not alone," I say. "Every spring there's a new Buzzfeed article or something about them that gets slammed with angry comments about how they're actually good, but just because the supporters have a mob doesn't make them right."

"I can't believe the two of you are giving me shit over liking a popular product," Basil says. "Casey who drinks burned coffee, and Simon who once ate a block of butter."

I turn to Simon. "You _what?_ "

He's shaking his head and blushing. "I was eleven years old and malnourished."

"You did it more than once," Basil says, and Simon rolls his eyes.

"You remember school. It always took me a couple of weeks after term started before I stopped feeling like I was literally starving. The food in care was awful and I was always too anxious over the summer to really eat."

Basil suddenly looks down at his hands, embarrassed, and I'm a bit shocked that Simon would reveal such a personal detail about his past just like that, to me, who he’s only known for an hour. He looks at me, and I look away.

Simon clears his throat. "Anyway."

"Is the tea ready?" I ask, groping for another topic of conversation.

"Maybe," Simon says, reaching for the pot. "How do you take it? Milk, sugar?"

“However it comes.”

“You sure?”

I shrug.  “A cup of tea’s a cup of tea, innit?”

Baz barks a laugh and stands up, stepping around Simon’s chair to the fridge.  “As long as it’s not reheated?”

“Precisely.  I’m glad you’ve been listening.”

He’s grinning as he pulls out the carton of milk.  This is the happiest I’ve seen him in weeks, and it gives me confidence that everything is going to be okay for him.

 

  
  
_-Rebecca-_

 

I'm waiting in the lounge with Mia, Marie, Dave, and Other Dave when Simon and Basil arrive at ten before eleven. Simon looks pretty rough, and Basil has a distressingly grim look on his face, but they're here, and Simon has his laptop bag with him. He’s even a little bit dressed up, wearing a button-up shirt and a green tartan bow tie.  He introduces Basil to Marie and Dave in a perfunctory way, then looks at me and takes a deep breath. "I guess it's time."

I bite my lip and nod. "Yep."

He shakes his arm, then clenches his fist. "Yeah."

I step close and put my hand on his shoulder. "You've got this, Simon. You've been working on this all semester, it's going to be great. You're prepared."

He's breathing carefully, looking at the floor, and Basil steps to his other side and slides his arm around Simon's waist. "It's okay, little puff," he whispers, so soft I can barely hear. "You'll be all right."

This must have some kind of meaning to them, because Simon immediately picks up his head and looks at Basil, who gives him the most bittersweet smile I've ever seen.

"You don't have to--" Simon begins, but Basil cuts him off.

"Shh. I want to."

Yeah, this is _definitely_ some kind of private thing with them. I look at the others, and we all sort of shrug while Simon and Basil finish having their moment.

Simon grips his computer bag with both hands. "Okay. Once more unto the breach."

Other Dave claps him on the shoulder. "Slay it."

Professor Ginsburg's office is just down the hall, and Simon gets her before we all go to the classroom she reserved. The screen is already pulled down, and Simon takes a couple minutes connecting his laptop to the projector while the rest of us take seats.  Professors Martin and Hall join us a minute later, while Simon’s preparing himself.

And then his first slide is up, and he turns off half the lights, takes a shaky breath, and begins.

  


_-Baz-_

 

It’s obvious that Simon’s nervous while he’s giving his presentation.  It’s dark enough in here that the others probably can’t see that he’s getting a little sweaty, and I’m sure they can’t smell it either.  But I can, and I think they are probably aware of the shaking of his voice.

It gets steadier as he goes on, though, getting into details and using jargon that I’m wholly unfamiliar with.  I thought I understood most of his abstract, but … I think it’s time for me to admit that this is really, completely beyond me.

It’s a difficult admission to make, and if I’m being honest it makes me feel shitty about myself.  I should be able to understand anything I put my mind to, shouldn’t I?  No field is beyond me if I try hard enough.  So the fact that I don’t understand this means I must have failed.  I must be so much less smart than I think I am …

I cross my arms over my chest and duck my chin, feeling like I want to hide.  It’s miserable, sitting here in a half-dark room, feeling cold because I dressed for a hot June day and not for air conditioning, not following the presentation at all.  I’m not sure why I came.  Simon’s not looking at me while he talks; when he does make eye contact with someone it’s a professor, or one of his classmates, someone who nods when he says something apparently interesting about the code he spent the last six months developing.  They all look rapt.

I try not to sigh, but I do anyway; at least it comes out quiet, and no one is paying attention to me.

I guess it’s ridiculous to expect myself to know about this programming stuff.  Simon’s been studying computer science for three and a half years, putting in a lot of effort.  I’ve been busy with other pursuits, so there’s no way I could know as much about it as he does.  Basic HTML is all I’ve got, and I’ve never even heard of the programming language he’s now been talking about for five minutes.

I’ve now succeeded in making myself feel stupid _and_ ridiculous.

The sound of Simon’s voice is the one remotely good thing in this entire awful situation, so I try to focus on that.  Half of his words don’t make any sense to me, so I just listen to his accent, the vowels that have been sounding more Northern again in recent years.  It doesn’t quite make sense to me, but then again, a lot of things about Snow are paradoxical.  Bunce and I have tried to sort out why he has more of a Lancashire accent since living in London than he did for most of the time when we were kids, with limited success.  We’ve tried asking him about it, even, but he doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it.  Or he’s fucking with us.  I wouldn’t put that past him.

Jesus, why is it so _cold_ in here?  Nobody else seems bothered.  I pull the elastic off my ponytail and shake out my hair, letting it fall over my neck and ears.  Simon glances at me, and I think he hesitates for a second where he didn’t intend to.

I’m here for _him_ \-- I feel kind of shitty right now, but I have to remember I’m here because he wants me here.  I’m apparently helping just by being in the room.  It seems kind of absurd that me sitting in the back and not following the presentation is actually helpful, but he insisted it was when I hinted at trying to get out of it before we left home this morning.

I guess this is one of those being-an-adult things like Simon and I have been talking about.  Doing something that seems kind of awful and pointless because it has to be done, or because someone you love wants you to do it.

It feels awful that even something as simple as this is so difficult for me.  Not to mention all those other things in life that I’ve been struggling with -- even just getting out of bed feels almost impossible these days, and every responsibility that comes after that is even more so.  Bathing, getting dressed, eating, doing schoolwork, keeping up with friends and family.  It’s so _hard_ to do everything I have to do.  There’s just so much, and I’m so tired, and it just … never stops.

I really did think, for a long time, that responsibility wasn’t supposed to be difficult for me, that the fact I’ve been having a hard time meant I was doing something wrong.  I’ve been starting to realize this past week that maybe it was unrealistic to think that I’d just be effortlessly good at staying one hundred percent on top of literally everything.  It’s _so much._

I shouldn’t be here right now.  I should be studying for my own finals, doing what I can to prepare to finish my GDL.  As much as I know it’s important for me to be here, I can’t shake the feeling that this is an unforgivable waste of my time.  It’s not that I _want_ to be working, but there’s a voice in my head that sounds awfully a lot like my father saying I should be focusing on my responsibilities.

 _Simon is one of my responsibilities,_ I counter, silently.  Our relationship is important.  This is important to him, so it’s important to me.  This is actually where I’m meant to be right now, where I need to be, even though I feel like that can’t be correct.

(My father was here this weekend.  He didn’t tell me I should be focusing on work or whatever -- he made me rest.  He made sure that Simon and I were there for each other, above everything else.  That doesn’t seem correct either, but it happened.)

Simon’s still talking, and gesturing at a complicated diagram.  I don’t want to be in my head any more, so I try to empty my mind and just zone out.

He only continues for a couple minutes more, and I refocus when he gets to the slide that’s titled _Acknowledgements_ and his posture relaxes minutely.  He thanks the authors of some professional papers he referenced, and devotes a minute to Dr Ginsburg and Rebecca -- and then he looks at me.  “I, um,” he says, smiling nervously.  “I also have to thank Baz -- er, Basil -- my fiancé.  He came along today.”

Everyone turns.  I feel like sliding onto the floor, but instead I sit up a little straighter, play the part.

“Thank you for being patient with me this term,” he says, and he sounds unexpectedly earnest.  “For not minding when I came home late more than I should have.  For helping me get through the hard days.”  He looks down at his hands, then back at me.  “You’re my rock.  I couldn’t have done this without your support.”

I’m suddenly choked up, to the point that I don’t think I could speak if I tried.  I give him the biggest smile I can manage and try not to start crying.  The others are applauding gently.

Luckily the next thing is him taking questions, so I have some time while he’s doing that to compose myself.  Any regret I had about coming this morning is completely gone, swept away by a tidal wave of gratitude and love and pride that came out of fucking _nowhere_ and has apparently incapacitated me.

When he’s finished I hang back while everyone congratulates him, shakes his hand, pats him on the shoulder.  The professors thank him and leave, and then it’s just his friends.  When I get the opening I step in and wrap my arms around him.  “Well done, darling.”

He practically throws himself into me; he smells sweaty and warm and it’s wonderful.  “Thanks for coming, love.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.”

He relaxes and steps back.  “Did you follow along?”

I shake my head.  “Not a word.”

He cracks a grin that warms my heart.  “Don’t feel bad, I barely followed it myself.”

“Really?” Rebecca says, bumping him with her shoulder.  “Could have fooled me.  You did a really great job.”

Simon blushes and takes my hand.  I hold it as tightly as I dare.

“Let’s go get lunch,” Dave says.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Simon says.  “Pizza?”

“Celebration pizza!” Other Dave chimes in.  “Let’s go, I’m starving.”

Simon laughs, and lets go of me so he can start packing up his computer.  “I’ve got to get my things together first.  Can we pick a place that serves beer?  I deserve a drink.”

“You sure do,” one of the girls says -- she’s the one I just met today, Marie I think?  I wasn’t really paying attention before.  “That was one of the best presentations I’ve seen.  It’s too bad you missed Friday, you didn’t get to witness the train wreck that Corey got himself into.”

Simon raises his eyebrows and looks a little worried.  “Is he okay?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Mia says, giving Simon a knowing look -- she was there the night he had the panic attack, and I can tell she’s remembering that now.  “He recovered fine.  It was something to watch, though.”

“What happened?”

“One of his diagrams was wrong,” Other Dave says.  “It was a chart he’d generated like a month ago, before he finished the optimisation.  He grabbed the wrong one when he was putting his slides together, and he noticed while he was in the middle of explaining it, just suddenly went silent.”

“It was actually sort of funny,” Rebecca adds.  “You know how Corey gets when he’s flustered.  He never quite recovered his composure, and there were a lot more bird sounds than there ought to have been.”

“Did he manage to show the right graph in the end?” Simon asks.  “I think I know the one you’re talking about, he worked on that thing for ages.”

“Yeah, he found it,” Mia says.  “After a lot of bird sounds.”

They all laugh; I apparently haven’t spent enough time with Corey to witness any of these bird noises.  “Lunch?” I say.

Simon beams at me like all the stress of this morning never even happened.  “I’m ready.  Let’s go eat.”


	15. Act 5, scene i

_-Simon-_

The couple of weeks following the end of term are a bit of a mess, partially because of my breakdown (our breakdowns), and partially because of the same stress and lack-of-coping that triggered them.

But the important thing is, I've graduated. I've got my BSc in Computer Science (from a prestigious London university, no less), I've finally had that job interview with the small firm in Hampstead that has a 2003 Watford graduate on the executive team.  It went well enough that they offered me the position on the spot: I start in their IT department at the end of June.

I had picked them to interview with first partially because they’d sent me the most emails, and they didn’t seem too put-off by my silence.  I guess their CIO (he signs his emails “Jeff”) knows enough about who I am to be especially interested in my background, or patient because of it.  Or maybe both.  But whatever it is, they liked me, and I liked them when I went there, and they’re going to pay me to do computer stuff for them.

After that I sent identical emails to everybody else who had contacted me: Thanks for your interest, I’m no longer looking.  Seeing my inbox nearly empty is incredibly weird.  What’s even weirder is knowing that I’ll have somebody else giving me structure to a big part of my life for the foreseeable future.  In hashing it out with Jeri we figured out that I’d somehow convinced myself I was going to be stuck muddling along forever trying to find my own purpose.

Baz is beyond relieved that I found a job, nearly as much as I am.  I guess I didn’t realise how much he was stressing about me having something to do, about us having some real income that isn’t from his dad.  We’re actually even closer with Baz’s family now than we were before, but we still don’t want to take their money if we don’t have to.

And Baz has his GDL now -- he did actually pass, even though he missed the one day. There didn't seem to be any issues with his professor accepting the explanation that there was a family emergency, and he'd certainly worked hard enough through the year that one missed lecture wasn't enough to sink him. Plus I'm certain that one day wasn't half as much of a big deal as he made it to be. So now he has the degree, and he's got a little time off before his LLM starts in September at University College London.

I've been talking to Jeri a lot more now than I was recently, but she thinks I'm doing well, I'm handling everything in a healthy way now that I got through the bit where I wasn't. I still feel like I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing; she's explained to me about imposter syndrome more than once, but I can't let go of it. I keep moving forward, though. Carrying on.

Baz has talked to her a couple times as well, which makes me feel a whole load of things that are difficult to process. I've made a point of getting completely away while he's on Skype with her; it's not for me to overhear. I try to be there for him when he gets done, though, because I know how draining it can be.  He has been looking for comfort from me after his sessions, and he's been sharing with me what they talk about.

He got his formal diagnosis, finally. That was apparently item number one on the agenda, so it's official now: Major Depressive Disorder. Which is a terrifying name, though I suppose the name can't be much worse than the thing itself.

In my own sessions Jeri did talk to me a bit about depression, with Baz's permission. Kind of like a crash course in what's going on with him, what he's feeling, the things that will help him. She says with the type he has, he'll have episodes of depression that come and go, so there are times where he feels really awful interspersed in his normal life, his regular moods. And apparently this has already been happening to him, for years -- it's just that this most recent one was the worst so far. So we can pragmatically expect that this will happen again, sometime. Hopefully not for a while. And he does seem to be on the upswing again from this one, his magic's come back now and he's much more himself. (Apparently the loss of magic thing is pretty typical for mages with depression. I can hardly believe that's not a well-known fact; nobody I've talked to but Jeri knew it was a thing.)

I’ve also now got a whole folder full of online resources, for families of people with depression. There's a lot there, it's kind of overwhelming, but I’ve started going through it, and I’ve learned a few things already.  Mainly ways I can help him interrupt when he’s digging himself into a pit.  What to say, what not to say.  Apparently I was doing pretty well already, but the reinforcement was nice.  And I picked up a couple new things.

I tried one, a few days ago when he seemed more down than he has been recently.  He’d been sitting at the table after breakfast, holding his mug of tea and staring out the window; when he suppressed a sigh I got up the guts to say something.

“You okay?” I said.

He turned to me slowly, a sort of blank look on his face.  “Sure.”

I pulled a chair around to his side and sat down, putting my arm around his back.  “It’s okay if you’re not.”

He leaned into me but didn’t say anything, so I put my hand on his where it was still wrapped around his mug.  It had gone cool by that point.

“What are you doing today?”

He leaned his head into my shoulder.  “I dunno.”

“Let’s make some plans then.  We could go out, or something.”

“Simon, I really don’t want to.”

“At least go shower and shave?  I’ll see if I can find something we can do that’s chill.  But we should get out of the house for a bit.”

“It won’t make me feel better.”

“Maybe not.  But maybe you’ll feel different.”

He picked up his head and frowned at me for that, but he accepted a kiss and then went and cleaned himself up.  And he did feel a little better when he was dressed, and then I took him for a walk up to the UCL campus and had him show me around.  Once he got going with showing off to me I could almost forget how the day had begun for him.  I don’t entertain any delusions that he somehow felt completely better, but he was definitely more and more himself as the day went on.

Jeri thinks that now that Baz has acknowledged that he _has_ a problem and is in treatment, things will start looking up for him. Me being in the loop and knowing sort of how to help should benefit him too. She's asked him to think about trying medication, though none of us know if his physiology would even work with an antidepressant. He's convinced it won't, and I'm trying to convince him he doesn't know that.

But the main takeaway from all of this is that he and I can't do all of this alone, and we shouldn't have to. We're not alone, of course, we have each other; but neither of us is a therapist and we can't be expected to do that for one another. We can give what boyfriends give, what husbands give. (Still a little weird to think that word -- _husband_. That that's what we'll be to each other in a year.) (I kind of hope I never get used to it, that it always feels like a miracle.) It does help everything else to know that he still chooses me, and that I still choose him, and that neither of us has any intention of ever changing our minds. But we're also both dealing with things that require real help, professional help, not just love and support.

One facet of our homework from Jeri is to communicate with each other more. Not that we've been doing a _bad_ job of that, but we've only had four and a half years of being lovers, following on seven and a half years of being mortal enemies.  So we still have a lot of those habits where we do things to obfuscate our meaning: teasing, poking, sarcasm. We love it, it's a part of who we are, as ourselves, as a couple. But we also need to open up to each other when we wouldn't normally, to be real and honest about the difficult things, and to help each other know when to get help from someone else.

It's going to be tough, being that vulnerable. A little bit of me is still afraid that he's going to turn it against me. That _I'm_ going to turn against _him._ (He has so many secrets, so many _dangerous_ secrets. When I stop and think about it, it's still astonishing that he's let me in on them, that he trusts me to keep them.)

But in general, things are turning around, and we have a short bit of quiet before I start work and Baz starts getting ready for his LLM programme. Well, relative quiet, anyway. Our current lease is up at the end of July so we've been looking for a new place, probably farther north, to be closer to UCL and to my job in Hampstead. We've got our eye on a few places near Regent's Park, all of them larger and nicer (and more expensive) than our current flat, and we've put in one application but haven't heard on it just yet.

In the meantime, Baz determined that we needed a little break, a short getaway, somewhere away from the city, away from our responsibilities. We've never been on holiday together, just the two of us, so I jumped at the offer, and he made the plans: three nights in the centre of Norfolk. We'll arrive on Tuesday and leave on Friday, beating the weekend crowd. My birthday is on Saturday, so once we get back to London we'll have time to have a little celebration, and then for me to pull myself together before my first day of work on Monday morning.

Our train gets into Norwich a bit before four. It's only half a mile from there to our hotel, and we don't have much luggage, so we decide to walk instead of trying to catch a cab. We check in quickly, and then start the climb to our suite -- Baz reserved the one way up in the eaves of the building, and there's a lift, but it doesn't go the whole way up.

But the climb is worth it: the room is gorgeous, with rough wooden beams and white plaster, cosy without being tiny, and a view of the cathedral out the east-facing window. Baz told me on the way that apparently the first Queen Elizabeth stayed at this hotel once, in the sixteenth century, and while that sounds like a legend the building has definitely been here that long. I expected it to remind me of Watford, of the Chapel or Mummers House, but it doesn't. It just reminds me of ... well, of East Anglia, which is not a very surprising observation. The summer I turned sixteen I was at a centre in Ipswich, which is about fifty miles south of here, so I've got some familiarity with this part of the country.

We haven't got any plans before our dinner reservation downstairs at seven, and I'm about to ask Baz what he'd like to do for two hours when I notice the smoulder in his eyes. He steals the question out of my mouth with a kiss, then presses me into the bed.

He makes love to me slowly, carefully, reverently. Every kiss is a tiny spark, until my whole body is engulfed in flame. I'm not convinced he isn't using magic. But still he holds back, tickling, teasing, stretching my patience. Making it last....

He gets me so wound up that by the time he finally brings my climax it actually does feel like I’m exploding, like my whole body is shattering, just like all the romance novel cliches.  And then he’s coming too, gasping and groaning, and the summer air is so close and humid it feels like we’re melting into one another.

 

***

 

The restaurant downstairs is nice, and we've got a romantic table in a corner, a bit removed from the other guests. Baz will these days allow me to take him out to eat, if we can be slightly private -- I think he's finally started to believe me that he's not as fangorious when he eats as he thinks he is. It's taken years to convince him, but it's opened up a whole new world of date possibilities. Eating in public!

The wine list is more than a little overwhelming, so Baz orders for both of us while I choose the food. After the waitress brings our drinks and disappears again, he starts getting a bit fidgety, looking sort of nervous, which then gets _me_ a little nervous as well.

"So, uh, Simon," he begins, and I feel like maybe I ought to say something, but I can't. I'm too busy trying to hold down the knot of anxiety that's rising in my stomach, trying to convince myself _this is irrational, there's nothing to be afraid of, this is nothing ..._

"I, um," he continues, then stops, rubs the back of his neck. "Shit, I ought to have planned this part better, I'm sorry."

"What--?" I try to say, but that's all I can get out, a terrified squeak.

And then he smiles at me, he _smiles_ , and it lights up his whole face, and he stands up out of his chair and gets down on one knee next to me and I'm speechless, _completely_ speechless, and he's holding my hand in both of his and he's saying something but I can't hear him over the rushing in my ears and the tidal wave of emotions that I can't begin to identify.

After a moment his smile falters, and I'm beginning to be able to hear again. "Simon?"

"You ... I ..." I attempt.

He blinks a couple times. "Simon, did you hear what I said?"

I shake my head, and his face softens.

"I said I hope you don't mind me asking you. Again. You know, even though you asked me first. It's just that I'd always kind of wanted to be the one doing the asking."

He's down on one knee in front of me in a restaurant and everyone's looking at us and _holy snakes_ is that a ring box he's holding? (Why is this happening? We're already engaged, I already asked him, months ago, we've already told everyone, we've all but sent out bloody invitations....)

"You're ... I mean, you ... uh ..." I stop and suck in a breath, which seems to clear my mind a bit. "I don't mind?"

He smiles again, so brightly I can't look away. It's like staring into the sun. "Simon Snow, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

I still feel thunderstruck, but at least I know the correct answer. "Yes, of course, yes," I breathe. "But, you ... why...?"

"Give me your hand," he says, gesturing, and I rather stupidly offer him both of them while he's opening the box. He takes out a narrow golden ring, a delicate, featureless band, and slides it on the fourth finger of my left hand -- it's a little tight, going over the knuckle, but he gets it on. "I wanted to give you something," he murmurs. "Something to show the world you're going to be mine. That I chose you."

"I'm yours already," I say.

He caresses my fingers and grins. "I know. _Always and evermore._ But all the same."

I stare down at our hands. "How on Earth did you know my ring size?"

He lets out a little laugh. "Lucky guess. I think this one is actually a bit small for you, but it's narrow so it's more forgiving." He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out an identical one in a silver tone. "I, um. I got this one first, so I'd know my size, and I just, you know. Looked at your fingers, tried to guess. They're actually the same size."

I take the ring from him and slide it onto the correct finger -- it goes on easily, his fingers are slim and elegant, not like mine, with my thick knuckles. And then it occurs to me what I just did, and I lean back a moment, look him in the eyes.

"Don't look so frightened," he teases, standing up. "We've been engaged for months, remember?" He leans down and kisses me, slowly, tenderly, but pulls back when I reach up to touch his face. "Not here," he whispers, going back to his seat.

"Tart," I say, kicking his ankle gently. Normally I don't like kissing in public but at the moment I can't find it in me to mind at all. “You really did surprise me, well done.”

He smiles hesitantly.  “I knew I would, but I wasn’t totally sure how you’d take it, since you asked me already.”

I don’t understand what he means, and I shake my head.  “What?  How would I take it?”

“Well, just … because you already proposed to _me._  And now I’m doing it again, but better.”

I laugh, and it’s maybe a little too loud, but it makes him smile wider.  “Baz, I proposed to you in the middle of the night while I was _drunk._  I’m not bothered at all that you’re doing it again how you want it.  If anything I’m relieved you’re not passive-aggressively trying to get _me_ to do it a particular way.”

He makes a mildly scandalized face.  “Are you trying to tell me I’m passive-aggressive?”

I’m still laughing.  “No, I’m saying you’re _not._  And thank snakes for that; if you were you’d be incredible at it and it would be awful.”

He grins and looks down at his hands on the table.  “So, what do you think of the rings?”

I look down at my hands, at his.  “They’re perfect.  I love them, I really do.”

“But?”

He’s entirely too good at hearing what I’m not saying.  "Well, it’s just … people are going to see these and think we're already married."

He shrugs, flips his hair behind his shoulder. (He's wearing it really long these days. I like it.) "So?"

"So, we're not. Not yet."

"What do you care what other people think?"

"I care loads!"

"Simon." He leans forward a little, his forearms on the edge of the table, hands folded together. I can see his ring shining in my peripheral vision, but I don't look away from his eyes. "Relax. There's all sorts of engagement rings these days, people will understand. And when we actually get married, we'll get bigger ones. These ones are so tiny, most people will wonder if it's really there or just a trick of the light."

I look down at them again. "They are small."

"I'll get you one four times that size when we actually tie the knot, if that'll make you happy."

I give him a fond smile. "It's not about the size."

He raises his eyebrows suggestively, but the waitress comes with our starter before anything smart can come out of his mouth in response.

 

***

 

After dinner we take a walk in the cathedral close, exploring the outdoor areas and eventually watching the setting sun play on the limestone. It's quite late by the time it gets dark (the solstice is this weekend), and we're both a bit worn out from travelling today, so we go back up to our room and watch some movie on the telly until we fall asleep.

Baz succumbs to unconsciousness before I do, which gives me an opportunity to watch him in the dim light, to admire the faint glimmer of our new rings. I'm overwhelmed by the affection I feel for him, by my gratitude for his strength through our recent issues, by my relief that he's always by my side. And he has _always_ been by my side, even though in the beginning he wasn't actually _on_ my side. He was there. We were together.

I reach over and wrap my hand around one of his. He makes a little humming sound and shifts slightly, but doesn't wake. He's still sleeping a lot, whenever he gets the chance, and I've wondered if this is a Baz thing or a depression thing. (I wonder where the line is between the two.) But he hasn't spent a whole day in bed, not even close -- not since that horrid weekend when everything fell apart. But we picked ourselves up from that, even if we needed quite a lot of help. And our sex life has rebounded nicely; case in point, our incredible encounter this afternoon.

But tonight's not the time to think about his depression, or our meltdowns. Tonight we're on holiday together, and we're in love, and we don't have any immediate concerns.

I take a deep breath, and focus on relaxing into my pillow, even though I'm still looking at Baz. He's so soft when he sleeps, with his beautiful dark hair falling around his face, and his mouth in that perfect pout. I close my eyes with that image in my mind.


	16. Act 5, scene ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual/setting references and a couple of CS-type explanations in the end note.

_-Baz-_

Simon is amazingly still in bed when I wake up, and we indulge in a few morning-breath kisses before I get up to have some blood (brought from home in a carefully-spelled insulated bag) and shower and shave before we go out for the day. Simon's eager to see the inside of the cathedral, since we saw the outside last night, so we go across the street right after we finish breakfast.

I've been on cathedral tours -- it's something my father thought was important for me, to know the history of Normal religion, especially since so much of English politics was tied up in it for so many centuries. Norwich Cathedral isn't one I've been to before, but I'm eager to see it, especially with an eye to its architecture -- it's nearly a thousand years old, and you can see that in the different architectural styles. The older ones are clearly visible from the outside, in the Norman rounded arches that went out of fashion in the twelfth century, as well as some later gothic pointed ones. But there's more inside, _loads_ more. Probably too much for one day, but we'll give it a shot, see how much we get through before Simon gets bored. (Which isn't me being unkind -- it's just this is the sort of thing that I can easily get lost in, totally lose track of time. I know I'd be blissfully happy in the cathedral for a week, but Simon's interest in this doesn't go as deep as mine.)

We start in the visitor centre, a new construction off to the side of the nave, for brochures and to slip our donations into the box. We're surprised when fifty Americans carrying black binders come down from a room up on the first floor, and spend a few minutes situating themselves in two lines extending back from the door that leads into the nave.

We're hanging back near the stairs, and Simon turns to me, silently begging for an explanation. I'm as confused as he is, but after a moment I have the presence of mind to pull out my phone and load up the cathedral's website, where I learn that they have a visiting choir in residence this week -- this must be them. A few of them look at us -- we're the only visitors in this area -- but we maintain our Britishness and pretend not to notice. Simon is blushing a bit, his neck is pink; I hope I'm not.

After a few minutes they all precess into the nave, and we follow behind, though we cut around by the front door when they turn towards the crossing. Simon watches as they follow the verger through the screen under the organ, but I'm much more interested in the interior arches and the bosses on the vaulting -- with my better-than-human eyesight I can actually see them fairly clearly, even from all the way down here.

"This place is _huge_ ," Simon murmurs.

I nod; it is large, and the limited ornamentation in the nave makes it seem even bigger. I suppose his only frame of reference for something like this is the White Chapel at Watford, and while that's fairly big, it's not as grand as a medieval cathedral. (For one thing, everyone is sure it's considerably older -- the engineering capabilities used here likely weren't available at the time it was built, whenever that was.)

While the choir rehearse, we meander around the perimeter of the cathedral. Simon moves a bit quicker than I do -- he's not a compulsive reader, he doesn't stop at every single plaque -- so I do my best to keep up; none of this is going anywhere, I remind myself, I can always come back.

Simon seems to be holding in a question, and when we get to the big chapel at the far eastern end he finally can't hold it in any more. He takes my hand and ducks his head close to mine. "This isn't giving you any trouble?"

I'm at a loss for his meaning. "What?"

"You know, because of ..." He trails off, gestures to a huge crucifix.

I almost laugh, and I pull my head back so he can see me smile. "No, not at all. You know that's a myth."

"I just thought, since I used to have that one ..."

"That one was a prepared relic, Snow, it was charmed. If any of these are, I haven't got close enough to feel."

"Oh." He relaxes visibly. "Good."

I resist the urge to kiss him; I settle for squeezing his hand before I let go.

We finish inside the cathedral just as the choir is wrapping up and practicing their procession out. Once they've left, I guide Simon through a different door and out into the cloisters. "This was a monastery at first," I explain. "Benedictine."

"There's more of these things on the ceiling," he says, pointing up. "I noticed them in the cathedral but I couldn't see them clearly, they were so high up."

"They're called bosses," I say; he's craning his neck upwards at one. I try not to focus on his throat. "Carvings of all sorts of things, Bible stories, mythology, secular life."

"They're fantastic."

"They are."

He meanders forward, inspecting them as he goes, and he's squinting a little. (I wonder if he needs his eyes checked?) "Is that a Green Man?"

It's a face, slightly cross-eyed, surrounded by gilded leaves. "Sure looks like it."

"In a Christian church?"

I shrug. "They built on Pagan traditions. You go into enough churches and pay attention, you'll see a lot of them. Sculptors like them, I guess."

"Wild."

I follow him around the cloisters, half my attention on him and half on the ceiling. He engages me in conversation about a couple more as we go, asking about the stories, but my knowledge of Christian myths is limited enough that I don't have many answers for him.

When we get back to where we started he turns his attention to the grassy square in the centre of the cloisters, and climbs over the stone steps into it. I stay in the shade and settle down next to one of the pillars, watching as he discovers the stone labyrinth laid into the ground.

He walks around its perimeter once, then finds the entrance and stands still for a moment with his eyes shut, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He murmurs something I can't make out from here, then opens his eyes again and begins walking, slowly.

From my low vantage point I can't really see the labyrinth in the grass, just him, walking, turning, walking. His face looks peaceful, and he's still barely mouthing something. It occurs to me he's probably doing a meditation -- that's something Jeri has been working with him on for a while, mindfulness I think he called it. Useful for anxiety, for being present instead of letting your mind run away.

It takes him a couple of minutes to get to the centre. When he arrives he stays facing the same direction, to the northwest, and I can see him in profile, standing quietly, eyes closed and face raised, breathing deeply.

I open my bag as quietly as I can and take my wand out, trying to hide it along my forearm. And I don't think this will do anything (the spell is so old, no one says this anymore, so it doesn't exactly work), but I want to try anyway: I hold onto the love for him that's swelling in my chest and whisper, " ** _Dona nobis pacem_**."

A little shiver passes through Simon, and he turns, looks at me with a smile, then cuts across the maze and jogs directly towards me. "What was that?"

I feel myself blushing a little, and I put my wand back. "Nothing, really. Old spell that doesn't work any more."

He sits beside me on the stone. "It felt like it worked."

I can't help raising one eyebrow. "Really."

"Yes really. How could I know you cast it otherwise?"

"Fair point."

"What was it?"

"What did you feel?"

Simon huffs; he's never liked the Socratic method. "It felt like ... like you were giving me a hug."

That's not what I expected. "What?"

"I mean, not literally. But, I ... you know ..." He sighs. "The feeling I get when you hug me. Like I'm safe and everything is okay."

I bite the inside of my cheek so I won't tear up in public. "Really?"

"Yeah." He sets his hand on mine where it's laying on the stone, rubs his thumb over my knuckles. "What was it?"

" _Dona nobis pacem._ " I try not to say it with any magic this time.

He grins. "I should have known it was Church Latin. No one but you would cast that."

"No one but me, really?"

"Of course. You're a gigantic nerd, and a big old softie."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "I beg your pardon, Snow, I am a cool and sophisticated gentleman."

He laughs, as I'd hoped, and squeezes my hand. "I bet that old spell worked half because we're in a thousand-year-old church, and half because you really wanted it to. You're such a romantic."

This time I don't restrain my urge (technically we're outdoors, so it's less inappropriate) and I lean in and give him a peck on the corner of his mouth; I don't care if anyone sees us. His breath is warm and sweet on my cheek, and I spend a moment inhaling the scent of him.

Simon's eyes are sparkling when I can see him again. "Hungry?"

"I am, a bit. It's after noon, isn't it?"

"The cafe here is supposed to be really good."

"You mean the Refectory?"

He waves a hand dismissively. "Fancy word for the place where I'm going to eat lunch. Let's go."

 

 

_-Simon_ -

 

Our second day in Norwich goes by as quickly as the first, and before I know it we've finished our last dinner at the hotel restaurant. Baz wanted to try some other restaurants around the cathedral quarter, but I liked our first dinner so much, I wanted to try everything on the menu, and he wouldn't let me order it all at once. So we compromised and ate dinner there three times. (We had the same waitress each time, and she always gave us a free dessert -- I think she was really tickled that Baz proposed to me the first night.)

There's one last place here I want to see, so when we've finished I lead Baz down Palace Street towards the river, and next to a car park we find a quaint little building with wooden picnic tables out front and a sign on the brick that says _Adam and Eve_. The exterior of the ground floor is swarmed with flowering plants, both growing out of the ground and in hanging baskets around the door that's maybe five feet tall. One of the tables is packed with people about our age, some of whom I think I recognize from the choir we saw at the cathedral yesterday.

"Is this a pub?" Baz says, a rare rhetorical question.

"Yep. Apparently it was founded as an ale house for the workers who built the cathedral."

He seems impressed. "It certainly looks like it could be that."

I tug on his hand. "Come on, I fancy a pint."

It's crowded inside, and the beams are low -- Baz keeps ducking, and I'm nervous for my own head a few times. So we come out again a couple minutes later, and take our drinks to one of the tables, the one closest to the river. From here the sun is behind the buildings to the west, but still shining on the topmost brick of the pub. The sky to the east is already going sunset-coloured.

Baz sits down across from me, and slurps at the head of his porter. "Ooh, that's sweet."

"Good, he said it was. Low-grav, right?"

"Allegedly." He's cutting back on alcohol since his diagnosis, but Jeri says a drink once in a while when he's feeling well isn't a problem. Not that he was ever a big drinker, so it's not much of a change really. "How's yours?" he asks.

I've got an IPA, mainly because I want it all to myself, and he doesn't like hoppy beers. I take a sip. "Mmm, flowery."

He wrinkles his nose. "You're a disgusting man, Snow."

I grin. "Takes one to know one."

He huffs in a self-important way, and turns his attention to his bag. "Changing the subject entirely, I was rather hoping that we could spend a little time thinking about our wedding while we were on holiday."

I frown. "That doesn't sound like a thing you do on holiday. That sounds like work."

He's got a notebook out (square ruled -- he's taken a shine to those recently), and glances up at me through his eyelashes. "Better now when we're relaxed than in the autumn when we go a week without seeing each other."

I feel a stab of anxiety in my chest, and I can tell he's immediately realized what he said. "Don't," I whisper.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "Simon, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it. I won't let that happen."

I close my eyes, focusing on his touch, and take a couple slow breaths: in through my nose, out through my mouth. When I look up he's watching me, his grey eyes just catching the golden glow of the sun and looking vibrant green.

"Better?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Sorry again."

"It's okay. I get your point." I rub a hand over my face.

Baz purses his lips and looks down at the paper. "We don't have to do this right now. The wedding stuff, I mean."

"No, it's okay," I sigh, trying to put myself back in the mindset. "It might be fun, right?" I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile.

"Are you saying marrying me is a chore?" he teases.

"No!" I laugh. "But in all seriousness, I'm much more interested in the marriage than the wedding."

He bites his lip to keep from grinning too broadly. "Is that what Jeri says is important?"

"No. I mean, yes, but it's what I think too. The wedding's just one day. Our marriage is the--" I choke on the next words a little, have to take a moment to catch my breath. "The rest of our lives."

"The wedding can reflect that," he says, kindly ignoring my lack of composure. "It's the start of the rest of our lives. Begin as you mean to go on, right?"

"I suppose."

"The wedding _is_ a big deal, though, intrinsically.  Magickal bondings always are."

"Is it really going to be magickal, though?" I ask, leaning forwards on my elbows. "I mean, I'm not a mage."

His eyebrows draw together. "What? Of course you are."

"Baz," I sigh. "I'm not."

"Yes you are, you're just really low-powered."

" _Infinitely_ low-powered."

"You ran out."

"It's never coming back."

"You don't know that."

I roll my eyes. "If anyone knows, it's me."

"Nobody knows _anything_ about you, Snow," he says, and he sounds very fifth-year, torn between annoyance and desperate affection. "We have honestly no idea. You're just the prophecy boy, and you fulfilled it, and the prophecy ended there. Anything could happen."

I sigh; I don't really want to argue about this. "Fine, whatever. But my question stands."

" _I'm_ a mage," he says. "Obviously. And as such I fully intend to be bound to you in every way that's possible."

"What if they don't work?"

He lets out a frustrated huff. "I'm still bloody well going to _try_."

Sometimes I'm astonished by how casually he shows me the depth of his love, and I have to let that sink in for a minute. "Okay. All right, okay." I lick my lips and nod. We'll move forward from here. "So what were you thinking?"

His eyes brighten. "I've had some ideas. The traditional Pitch rites, of course; the family wouldn't have it any other way, and anything to endear you to them is useful. All the ones we _can_ do, anyway, which does reduce the number. The Grimms haven't got as many, but we should do them, too."

"How many are we talking here?"

He shrugs. "Between the two families, probably five or six."

As I feared. "How long is this wedding going to be?"

He looks up from where he's making a list and gives me a fond smile. "We'll only do one in the actual wedding ceremony, the handfasting. The others we'll do before. I think we can do them all in a day, two at the most. Penelope and Dev will help out, of course."

I pick up my glass. "I've changed my mind, marrying you _is_ a chore."

He smirks and kicks my shin gently. "You like it."

"Merlin help me, I do."

By the time the sky gets dark, Baz has filled two pages in his notebook with his pointy script, and I actually have a decent sense of what I'm getting into, as well as a pleasant buzz from the beer -- I'm well into my second pint, more of the same pale ale. Baz's hair is falling prettily around his face, and every time he lifts a hand to tuck a lock behind his ear I want to kiss it -- his hand, his ear, his hair, whatever. His eyes are shining in the darkness, catching the yellow light that spills out of the pub, and his skin looks warm and soft. (I know it isn't actually -- warm, that is -- but I still thirst to touch it.)

When it gets to the point where I can't see the paper at all, he folds it up and puts it away. He's still got a couple inches of his beer, and he comes around to my side of the table and sits down next to me. I'm glad for the opportunity, and I kiss him, on the ear, the cheek, the nose. He's giggling and blushing. "Simon."

"What?"

"We're in public."

"No we're not."

"We are." He runs his hand lightly over my shoulders, where my wings used to be. (Where those oddly-coloured scars are now.) "Those choristers are probably staring at us."

"Let them."

He turns into me and we share a heated kiss, one that turns my insides to jelly and quickens my pulse. I squeeze his knee, slide my hand up higher.

He stops it with a gentle touch. "Not here."

I slide my hand back down to his knee, lightly, tickling, and he twitches away with a startled sound in his throat. "Arse!"

I start laughing; I'm not sure why, it wasn't that funny.  But he joins in and it feels wonderful, so free and easy.

He catches his breath first. "Back to the real world in the morning."

I nod. "Yeah. One weekend and then I start my first job."

"It's not your first job," he says, in the tone he uses when he's pointing out obvious things. "You worked at the Apple store. And Superdrug before that."

"My first _real_ job," I say. "As an adult, full-time. As a career."

"And you're feeling ... okay about it?"

"Sure.”  I pause -- honesty is key.  “I mean, I'm nervous, of course. But I feel good. I just hope I don't show up to them expecting me to be the Chosen One all over again."

Baz gives me a slightly sad smile. "It's only the CIO who's a mage, right?"

"Him, and the executive assistant, actually, I met her at my interview as well. So, my boss's boss, and the one who essentially controls everything from behind the scenes. But who knows what they've told everyone about me, they know we three went to the same boarding school. Plus Ginsburg talked me up the Normal way."

"What is it you'll _do_ , anyway? I'm still not totally clear on that."

I haven't gone into a lot of detail with him; it's quite technical, and I haven't yet looked at the full details of my particular responsibilities. They'll give me that once I actually start, no point until then. "I'm the junior database and web support technician."

"I know your _title,_ Simon. What will you be actually doing?"

My first instinct is to start talking about Java and their awful outdated specialised software and the old machines it runs on and the impending Unix time catastrophe.  But I stop myself, shrug. "Database software and web support. Probably office software stuff too, though. They run Mac OS. And they have this database thing they've been using since about 2005, apparently it's a bear and made of patches at this point." I guess I can't help talking about that piece of shit. And I haven't actually even worked on it yet, all I know is what they showed me the day I went in.

He lets out a high-pitched giggle before he bites it back. "Are you going to be the bloke who has to tell people to turn it off and on again?"

I roll my eyes. "It's much more complicated than that."

"Come on, Simon, admit it: your life's about to become _The IT Crowd_."

That draws a chuckle out of me. "D'you think anyone would believe me if I brought in my Raspberry Pi and told them it was the internet?"

He laughs out loud. "Not if you keep it in that rainbow case."

"Really? Everyone knows the internet is gay."

The laugh goes up his nose and he makes an undignified sound. "Only the _good_ bits. The rest is nasty hetero porn and videos of cats being startled by cucumbers."

"Maybe if I got a case for it that looked like tits they'd believe me."

He's grinning like mad. "I think that might get you sacked, darling."

"Hm, perhaps."

He puts his hand on my neck and kisses me firmly, and when I grip his thigh he moans breathlessly. "It's getting late. I think we should head back."

"I think maybe you're right," I murmur against his lips.

He pulls away, picks up his beer. "Bottoms up."

We take a minute to finish our drinks and remove ourselves from the table. He slips his hand into mine while we're walking up the road, back towards the hotel, and he gives me a look in the darkness that makes my stomach flop in a way that's quite pleasant. I'm feeling bubbly and light and happy, and I squeeze his fingers, fidget momentarily with his ring. This whole trip has been like a mini honeymoon, complete with us seeing a bit more of the inside of our hotel room than I'd expected. I'm not complaining, of course. It's preferable to us being so eager that we do it in the men's room at a pub. We do have more class than that, I think.

A man wearing a black-and-white pinstripe suit with a red-lined cape and a top hat is leading a dozen people down the pavement towards us, gesturing dramatically with a silver-topped walking stick. We step to the side to let them pass, and hear a bit of his narration -- it's one of the ghost tours that they advertise around here. "They must be going down to the Adam and Eve," I say.

Baz raises his eyebrows. "Why do you say that?"

I shrug. "It's old."

"Lots of things are old."

"That one's older than most, though."

"I suppose."

"Besides, it looks old, too, that tiny front door? You almost beaned yourself going in. And out."

"Shush." He lets go of my hand and slides his arm around my waist, tucking his fingers into my hip pocket. I respond by putting my arm around him too, just resting on his shoulder. It's difficult to walk like this -- our strides are different lengths, and our arms are in each other's way -- but I don't really care and he doesn't seem to either. We're moving in the same direction, and we're together, and that's what matters. We'll always be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locations:  
> [Norwich Cathedral]()  
> [Your author in the labyrinth](https://goo.gl/photos/ZBSySB2rLZAjQ1iF8)  
> [The Adam and Eve](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_and_Eve,_Norwich)  
> [their front door](https://goo.gl/photos/S28pfftXTP6X5nQM6)  
> [Your author's 6'3" husband in that door](https://goo.gl/photos/quZopDvS7Gp272vG6) (Baz is 6’1” and Simon is 5’10”)
> 
> Unix time “catastrophe”:  
> [on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_2038_problem)  
> [Numberphile (8-minute video)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJQ691PTKsA)
> 
> [Raspberry Pi](https://www.adafruit.com/categories/105) is a very tiny, bare-bones computer  
> [Rainbow case](https://www.adafruit.com/product/975)


End file.
